Something to Chew On

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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)

Diva? Who, Me?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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 Trouble with Tractors (and trousers)

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Twelve years old.  My first time to drive a tractor.  Or anything with a clutch, for that matter.  It was the summer between elementary and junior high school and we were making a tour of relatives I had never seen, as well as several I knew only vaguely.  Great aunts and an uncle along with my Mom’s cousins, all in Kansas, and then on to Illinois to visit my aunt, uncle, and cousins there.  It may have been a trip of only a couple of weeks, but in my memory it was much longer, probably due to the many different beds in which I slept.  Southern Kansas was our first stop on the long trip and we were at Uncle Paul’s farm.  The lanky old farmer was married to my grandmother’s sister, so technically he was “great” uncle, and I think the title fit.  He shook his head at the antics of four rowdy would-be delinquent boys (of course my sister behaved herself perfectly), but I think he loved every minute of it.

We wandered the fields where we found Native American arrowheads, fished the pond (keeping an eye out for cottonmouths), and swam in the river while digging up fresh water clams.  Then he pulled us over the hill and along the dirt roads, riding on the flatbed trailer behind the old tractor.  Unbeknownst to him, we even took more than a few turns jumping out of the loft of his century-old barn into the corn bins down below.  What an adventure for this young man, about to enter the perplexing stage of being a teenager, inevitably leading to the awkwardness and angst so characteristic of those difficult years.  But, that was all in the future; no need to borrow from its troubles.  For those few days, the joy of country adventures was enough.  Add in the amazing meals, when the table bowed under the weight of the food Aunt Edna cooked, and we were content.

I’m not sure how it came about, but Uncle Paul became convinced that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let us learn to drive his old farm tractor.  Thus it was that on that fateful summer afternoon, I waited impatiently for my turn to drive the suddenly very sporty vehicle (beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder).  My first time to drive anything bigger than a mini-bike!  Of course, I would be great at it; that went without saying.  Since my oldest brother was already driving a car with a manual transmission, he was allowed to teach us to drive the machine.  The two brothers just older than me had no problems, learning the trick of revving the engine just enough to have the torque to engage the gears when the clutch was released.  Back and forth, up the dusty driveway, the little red tractor chugged, never out of control, never emitting a sound of  disapproval, until finally it was my turn.

I clambered into the wide seat, designed for comfort and not for looks, glancing over the controls.  As my brother stood behind the seat on the hitch, he explained the different pedals.  “That one on the left is the clutch.  You let it out to engage the drive gears.  The middle one is the brake.  Push it when you need to stop quickly.  The far right one, on the other side of the steering column?  That’s the accelerator.  You won’t need to use it much, except to get the engine revved up when you’re engaging the clutch.”  I listened, but I guess I didn’t hear.  I was too excited!  I was going to drive this puppy!

The next few moments are kind of a jumble in my mind.  I remember revving the engine with the accelerator and popping the clutch.  Miraculously, the engine kept running and we leapt forward.  The only problem is that I kept my foot on the accelerator and we went faster and faster.  Big brother was shouting, “The clutch!  Push in the clutch!”  I complied, engine still roaring, but then he yelled, “The brake!  Push the brake!”  The only problem with this maneuver was that I had to remove my foot from the clutch, to comply.  The machine jerked forward again with plenty of power still being supplied by the wide open throttle.  For the next few seconds, I kept hearing, “The brake!  The clutch!” over and over.  By this time, he was trying to climb over the seat to turn off the ignition, but on a small tractor, the huge back tires are quite close to the seat, so his pants leg somehow got entangled in that rotating part of the out-of-control vehicle.  Through my fog, I finally got my foot off of the accelerator and hit both the brake and clutch at the same time, slowing the lumbering, ugly old farm implement (you see how quickly perceptions can change?) to a stop.

My own embarrassment at my failure to tame the unruly beast was only surpassed by my brother’s mortification at having to walk the length of the driveway to the farmhouse, right past the onlooking family, holding his jeans closed.  The moving tire had ripped his pants leg, right from the lowest hem all the way up to the inseam and it was flapping in the wind.  He refused to speak to me for the rest of the day.  I was not foolish enough to ask for another chance at driving the maleficent machine which had defeated me.

I never recall that summer without at least a chuckle at the vista my memory opens before me.  As a family, we have laughed about that comedy of missteps again and again, but invariably, the laughter turns to silence as we contemplate the danger and horrors which could have been the outcome.  In my mind’s eye, I see my oldest brother lying on the dirt lane, body shattered by the big wheel which could have pulled him under it, just as easily as it ripped his bluejeans.  Or, equally as bad, both of us trapped under an overturned tractor after it leaves the level drive and wildly careens into the ditch beside it.  But, just as quickly as the dark clouds dim the spectacle, the realization that neither of those possibilities actually happened hits again, and the laughter is back.  The payback for borrowing trouble is never profitable, but the benefits of counting the blessings we have been given are always multiplied exponentially.

I think that the teaching of Jesus, when he warned against worry and fretting, includes the “if onlys” of the past.  “Sufficient unto the day, is the evil thereof.”  We get through the bad times with the strength He provides, and are blessed by Him in the good times.  What more can we ask?

Split pants and damaged pride both make for some mighty good memory sharing.  I bet you’ve got a few of your own to get you started counting your blessings.

“Every evening I turn my worries over to God.  He’s going to be up all night anyway.”
Mary C Crowley~American entrepreneur and writer~1915-1987

“Reflect upon your present blessings, of which every man has many – not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.”
(Charles Dickens~English novelist~1812-1870)

Holding the Coats

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

They called her the “Sweater Lady”.  It wasn’t a term born of respect.  I’m not sure why, but the era in which I grew up was a time of odd fads and weird events driven by peer pressure.  All you have to do is look at the amazingly outlandish clothes and hairstyles of the sixties and seventies to understand that what I say is factual.  As ashamed as I am to admit pursuing some of those stupid fashions, the event I speak of today is really shameful, while the fads are now simply embarrassing. 

We had noticed the young lady before, walking or standing in her yard beside the well-traveled rural road, where she lived with her aging parents.  She wore unfashionable clothes; almost always long skirts, with socks sticking out over the tops of her old tennis shoes.  Her blouse was always covered with a cardigan sweater, even in the hottest of weather.  Her hair was unkempt and the look on her face made it clear that she was mentally handicapped.  Probably about twenty-five years old (or maybe forty, I never really knew), she stayed in her yard, never bothering anyone else, once in awhile actually climbing one of the trees with low-hanging limbs near the edge of the yard.  My parents had taught us to respect all people, regardless of their abilities or disabilities.  So, when we passed by, there was never a disparaging word spoken, never a teasing remark forthcoming.

Such was not the universal experience for the teenagers in the local high school.  One day, some bright kid had a great idea.  “Hey, let’s go by and see the Sweater Lady!”  And, thus the poor lady’s nightmare began.  It wasn’t much at first, just a car or two of kids driving slowly by to take a look.  There were probably some things yelled at her, but she didn’t understand.  Little by little, it escalated.  The kids began to tell their friends at school, “Hey, we saw the Sweater Lady after school yesterday.  You want to come today?”  Before you knew it, the largest part of the kids in high school who had cars were cruising up and down Ware Road, yelling and catcalling, perhaps even throwing things.  The woman’s world was turned upside down and she knew fear and torment, perhaps for the first time in her life, but certainly her home and yard were no longer a safe haven.

I was too young to be in one of those cars, but my childhood home was within a mile of hers and I had ridden by on my bicycle many times.  As the kids at school exclaimed about the spectacle of a grown woman climbing up a tree, in spite of my upbringing I found myself bragging about seeing her and how ridiculous she was.  No, I didn’t participate in the actually torment, but I wasn’t repulsed by the idea enough to buck the trend and speak for the victim.  Saul of Tarshish comes to mind as he held the coats of those who stoned the martyr Stephen.  No stone-throwing for him, but agreement with the act appears to me to be the same as committing the action.  Such was my involvement in this travesty.

Both the civil and school authorities caught wind of the afternoon activity and put a stop to it as quickly as possible, but the damage was done.   The family’s quiet life had been devastated, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the edict which ended this one episode was of no benefit in changing the perpetrators’ viewpoint or treatment of mentally handicapped persons.  They were not normal, not like “real people”, so the bias and stigma remained unchanged.

I’m not a social campaigner, not motivated to change the whole of our culture’s fabric.  That’s not my mission in life and not my purpose in writing this.  I simply recount the memory of that sad time in hopes that it will trigger a response.  We have a responsibility to learn from the past and to let it inform our present and future actions.   I have personally looked at those long ago events many times in my memory and have realized that I can’t go back and undo them.  As a parent though, I had the opportunity to break the pattern and help my kids to be better people than I was.  As a grandfather, I have the same opportunity.   As I experience life, it becomes clearer to me that children and teenagers are, contrary to popular belief, naturally unkind to anyone who is different and who doesn’t fit in.  We hear that kids have to be taught to hate, but my experience is just the opposite; they have to be taught to be loving and respectful.  It is in our nature to dislike anyone who is out of the mainstream, who is different from ourselves.  The adults in children’s lives have a responsibility to help them overcome that nature and learn to accept each other.  Does that mean that we don’t teach them to discriminate between good and bad, right and wrong?  Not at all!  We teach them the foundational principles, certainly, but we also help them to love people, no matter what their abilities or disabilities.  We do that in our actions, our words (all the time), and our attitudes.

Well, once again, I’ve managed to get up into the pulpit and preach at you.  I hope you’ll look past that.  It is in my blood.  The preaching helps to keep me on the right track, too.  Maybe tomorrow will bring something more entertaining and less weighty.  You should check back then.

“All the world is odd, save me and thee; and sometimes I think thee is a little odd.”
(Anonymous saying)

“Who dares to teach must never cease to learn”
(John Cotton Dana~American librarian~1856-1929)

Who Wrote the Book of Love?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Have you ever seen love up close?  No, I’m not talking about the mushy, touchy-feely, here-today-gone-tomorrow kind of love.  That, you see on television, depicted in graphic detail again and again every day.  The popular notion of love is in our faces relentlessly, but gives no clue of what love really is.  Still, I think I saw it the other day.  No, I’m sure I saw it the other day.

The Lovely Lady and I had spent a couple of days in a lazy unhurried non-schedule, soaking in the experience of people-watching and unwinding at a popular breakfast restaurant, wandering into and out of countless “antique stores” (read: “collections of old junk”) and hock shops in pursuit of everything and nothing, and pretty well finding just that.  We stayed in a posh downtown hotel, thanks to a discount travel service, getting up whenever we wanted and going wherever we wished.  I have to admit, the banjo museum was an original treat, but I was thankful that all the banjos were behind glass where no one could play them.  The walk along the river was relaxing, in spite of the 103 degree temperature, and the movie was tolerable.  We did have one item that was scheduled and we made sure to keep the appointment.

The symphony was giving a holiday concert with a guest vocalist whom we have always enjoyed, so 7:00 in the evening found us striding along the city streets, folding canvas chairs slung over our shoulders, toward the events center parking lot for the free entertainment which wouldn’t start until 8:30.  The streets were crowded with folks headed the same direction and there were more than a few policemen and “ambassadors” posted about to make us feel safer.  As we passed one such post, I casually commented to the cheerful older gentleman that it was a bit warm.  He replied, “Well one good thing…you don’t have to worry about goose-bumps out here!”  Boy, was he wrong!

I won’t bore you with the long wait on the hot pavement, the searing sun on our necks, the futile waving of the advertising paper fans in an attempt to keep cool.  But, as the sun plunged below the horizon and the temperature moderated a little, the musical sounds wafted through the air, first the individual warm-ups, a horn here, a viola there, then the corporate tuning session, and finally, the blending of a hundred or so individual instruments’ voices fused into one beautiful conglomeration of sound and purpose.  We were content and sat in rapt attention, unmindful of the cacophony of crowd noise around us and the non-musical folks who moved to and fro through the crowd, themselves unaware of the beauty which flowed from the stage.  It was an apt ending to a great relaxing weekend.

What?  Did I leave something out?  Oh, yes!  The goose-bumps.  Two things during the evening inspired those little raised spots on my neck and my arms.  The vocalist (and audience) was responsible for them at a couple of junctures; once when she sang a beautiful rendition of that old hymn “How Great Thou Art” (you should have heard that huge crowd singing along) and later when she invited us to join her on “God Bless America”.  Music has such a capacity for moving the human spirit and it certainly achieved that for many on that night.

This capacity was partly responsible for the other case of the chicken-flesh on that hot summer evening, but only partly.  The orchestra was playing an upbeat, rhythmic piece, one which just invited the body to move.  We patted our feet, maybe even tapped on our legs with our hands a little, but public decorum demanded that we go no further and we acquiesced.  Not so with one fellow a few feet away from us.  My eyes were drawn away from the lighted stage in front of us to glance at the man.  The glance was enough to notice that he was an adult, but that he was mentally handicapped.  I hope that term is acceptable.  The landscape keeps changing so I’m not sure if “gifted” is more correct, or possibly “special needs”, but I use the term simply as descriptive, not as a pejorative.  This young man, probably 25 or 30 years of age, clearly was moved by the music and he was not to be denied.  Joyously, he was on his feet and dancing, waving his American flag, wonderfully unaware of the rules of decorum and concert etiquette.  Those of us around watched him, and most smiled, but a few laughed.

Love makes you do strange things, things you wouldn’t normally do.  As I worried about those unkind people laughing, I noticed that another man got up from his chair and began dancing along with the young fellow.  Within moments, the young man’s mother and his sister were also up with his father and were dancing, every bit as energetically as he, spinning around him, taking his hand and urging him on in his joyous abandon.  There was no embarrassment, no reticence in their celebration of their son and brother, no concern for reputation, simply a declaration of their unwavering love.  The goose bumps were back, along with a little stray moisture in the corner of my eyes.  I’m not sure, but I think I saw others wipe away a tear or two.  Maybe it was just perspiration.

We have been conditioned to think of love as an emotion, a physical reaction to the wiles of the opposite sex.  Our whole lives are tied up in the thought of fulfilling our desires and needs with love.  When the reality doesn’t fit our expectation, we move on to the next relationship and start our impossible quest all over again.  I would submit to you that love has nothing whatsoever to do with selfish desire and perceived need, and everything to do with living for someone else.  In the unselfish actions of that young man’s family last Sunday night, I saw love.  And it appeared to me that they enjoyed the dancing every bit as much as he did.  What a great concert!  It wasn’t the best music I have ever heard, but there were some amazing moments, both on and off the stage.

I’m not sure if the tank is full, but there’s certainly enough fuel now to keep going for a few more miles.  We don’t always find the filling station where we expect it to be…and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Love always protects, always hopes, always trusts, always perseveres.”
(I Corinthians 13:7)

“We cannot do great things on this earth, only small things with great love.”
(Mother Theresa)

Out of Gas

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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)

Not My Bag

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The elderly woman stood and looked me in the eye.  “I’ve been told that you can repair any accordion.  Is that true?”  The only thought in my head was something like, “Me and my big mouth!”  but what came out was a grudging admission that I hadn’t yet worked on one that defeated me.  She asked me to go out to her car and bring in the case from the back seat.  Resigned to my fate, I went out quiescently to bring in the jumbo-sized instrument.  As I wrestled the accordion from its case and up onto the table, she started through her laundry list of the problems which were to be remedied.  I listened to the litany of defects and then, looking over the entire instrument, played my trump card.

You see, I didn’t want to work on this instrument.  In the echelon of mechanical musical inventions, the accordion remains in the bronze age, while most of the others seem to have progressed at least minimally beyond that.  Accordions are still made primarily by hand, and assembled piece by piece with individual adjustments being made to each linkage and mechanism as it is installed.  On the larger models, the pieces are almost innumerable.  No compartmentalization here, no sections which may be removed to work on the components below them.  No…you have to remove the parts just as they were installed, one piece at a time.  The time involved with such repairs is almost all spent in disassembling and reassembling, which might take hours. The actual repair many times takes mere moments compared to those hours.  It is also entirely possible to take apart an instrument, make the repair, and put it back together again, only to find that the adjustment of the repaired part isn’t quite as it should be.  You guessed it, back apart again, adjust, then back together again, ad infinitum.

My trump card?  I quoted an astronomical price for the labor involved in the repair, quite legitimately.  I was already replacing the squeeze box in the case, ready to carry it back out to the car for the lady.  No such luck!  “That sounds reasonable to me.  When can you have it ready?”  I was trapped!  A date was named and the work duly performed.  When she picked up the instrument a month later, she said sweetly, “I have several friends with whom I play sometimes.  I’ll be telling them about you.”  I immediately swore her to secrecy, purchasing her silence with the promise to make adjustments whenever she needed them if she would never divulge my identity.  Then I made a phone call or two to the music stores in the surrounding towns, informing them that I would not be repairing any more stomach Steinways, so they should forget that they ever knew of my abilities.  It has been a few years now, so hopefully they really have forgotten my name.

Have you ever started something you were sure you wanted to do, only to find that you really didn’t like doing it at all?  Perhaps you even trained for years for the job and then found that it just wasn’t your cup of tea.  I remember one of the Lovely Lady’s friends who went through four years of an Education degree at the local university, only to discover the first year she taught, that she couldn’t stand being in the classroom with a bunch of kids.  One young man I know was positive of his direction in life for years ahead of starting college, only to find in his freshman year that he hated the task he would be doing for the rest of his life if he completed his degree.  I’ve always thought that he was one of the lucky ones, to figure it out so early in the game!

Besides my brief stint as an accordion technician, I remember at least one more similar disappointment in my lifetime.  The Lovely Lady’s father was a piano tuner for most of his life, along with being a master of the technical manipulations required to make these beautiful instruments sing and perform precisely.  He was also a wonderful teacher, having taught many young adults to tune and repair pianos.  I desperately wanted to tune pianos, too.  Accordingly, I joined one of his classes and learned about temperaments, stretched octaves, beats and false beats in unisons, and a lot of other jargon which I have (thankfully) forgotten.  I was into the fourth or fifth tuning of my practice piano, matching unisons and thirds (or was it seconds?), plink-plink-plinking my way up the keyboard, when it hit me.  I hated this!  It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it; I actually was pretty good at it.  The problem was that I hated sitting at a piano, plinking at the keys, and not making a speck of music.  It was sheer drudgery to me.  To my father-in-law’s disappointment, I suggested that this wasn’t to be my life’s vocation and put my tools away.

I’m looking back at these experiences and others, finally mature enough to realize that they were not failures.  There is nothing that I would change about those hours and minutes spent in exploring the possibility of doing something that I might love.  So, I didn’t enjoy the activity itself.  That’s no longer a problem for me.  I tried new things, meeting new people, and gaining memories in the process.  That’s how life works.  We attempt and reassess, then we attempt again.  It’s all part of being a human being.  Was my time of exploration wasted?  Not at all!  How about the prospective teacher?  Or the young college student?  I would guess that both of them are starting to see that the time they spent has gone into making them what they are today.

After all, that’s true for every single one of us.  We are the sum of our experiences, along with a good measure of our faith, and even a dash or two of disappointment tossed in for flavor.  We live; we learn.  And, we all move a little closer to being the person we aspire to be, the person God is shaping us into.  And, it’s good.

My main concern now is that I’ve let all of you into my accordion repairing secret.  I hope you can keep your mouth shut.  I guess I’m just going to have to trust you.

“You are never too old to set a new goal, or to dream a new dream”
(C S Lewis~British author~1898-1963)

“Success consists of going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.”
(Winston Churchill~British Prime Minister and statesman~1874-1965)

Maybe Just One More

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The email arrived late tonight.  “I only wanted one,” was the terse statement.  The missive was in reply to a question I had asked earlier in the day of the customer.  Her order had arrived in my in-box and I had promptly pulled the item and prepared it for the shipping room.   Coming back to my monitor a moment later, I was surprised to see another, identical order from the same lady.  The time stamp showed that the two orders had been placed within two minutes of each other.  I had a pretty good idea of what happened, but wanted to hear it from her.  Sure enough, she clicked twice on the button which finalizes her order.  In bold black type, the online instructions plainly say, “click the button below ONLY ONCE.”  The directive goes on to say that it could take up to three minutes to process the order.  In spite of the instructions, the order was placed again.  I’ll cancel the additional charge to her credit card and will only ship one item.  I wish all the consequences of impatience and self-gratification were so simple to remedy.

Tongue-in-cheek, I told you the other day about some of the quirky sayings that the Lovely Lady’s father had passed on to me.  There was one I didn’t include, but I hear it repeated too many times, mostly from my own lips.  “That was really good!  It tastes like another one!”  This phrase is best emphasized by grabbing another doughnut, or serving up another piece of pie.  One was good, the second one can only be better.  My scale registers something over the two century mark as I gingerly step onto it, another reminder that the old days of eating what I want without penalty are a thing of the long distant past.  I’ve said, “Maybe just one more,” a few times too many over the last thirty years and the evidence is literally right in front of me.

In my music store, I have threatened to have tee shirts printed up with the slogan “You can’t have too many guitars” on the front of them.  These, of course, would be intended for the unhappy wives of a number of guitar buyers.  Once again, the suggestion is facetious, and in fact, it’s almost a serious enough issue to be concerned about and not one to laugh about.  There are people to whom common sense is a stranger when they see a guitar they have read about, or seen a friend playing, or heard played on their favorite recording.  They must possess that instrument and will go to almost any length to obtain it.  I’m not sure that I know of this problem causing any divorces, but there is no question that a fair number of family squabbles have been started by the purchase of one of these beautiful ladies with their glossy finish and siren-like qualities.  Perhaps it is possible to have too many of these wonderful instruments.  Maybe it would make more sense to print up some tee shirts with a blurb that says “Listen to your wife!” and distribute them to my married customers.  Nah…that wouldn’t be good for business.   Anyway, some of those wives have the same problem when it comes to purchases in their field of interest.  We haven’t yet discussed shoes, or handbags, or…I think I’ll stop there or I may have to face the consequences later.

Indeed, we live in a day when self-control is not encouraged.  The messages with which we’re perpetually barraged tell us to give in to our desires.  See something you want?  Get it.  Can’t afford it?  Charge it.  Been taught that it’s not good?  Ditch your belief system.  We live in a new reality; a reality without consequences.  What once was good is actually bad, the formerly forbidden is to be desired and attained.  The new truth is that if you want it, it can’t be wrong.  The only problem with this new reality is that it is a dream-world, one guaranteed to turn into a nightmare the further you proceed into it.  We’re surrounded by the evidence in ruined lives; stars in recovery programs, politicians (and preachers) resigning in shame or going to jail, marriages in shambles, hoarding, alcoholism, drug addiction…the horrendous list is without end.

As I write this, I’m practicing a new phrase, one which I’ve not had much experience saying; “No, thank you.”  I don’t want to super-size it, don’t want seconds, don’t want another one in the driveway.  I’m thinking that the great man who said many centuries ago, “True Godliness with contentment is itself great wealth,” had his head screwed on straight.

I’ve had enough, thank you!

“Self-control is just controlling myself
It’s listening to my heart
And doing what is smart
Self-control is the very best way to go
So I think that I’ll control myself”
(Mike Milligan~Singer-Songwriter~”The Music Machine”)

“And even when you ask, you don’t get it because your motives are all wrong–you want only what will give you pleasure.”
(James 4:3)

The Right Tool…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Stephen Paul Phillips!  Where are my good fabric scissors?”  Wow…It was a three-namer; a pretty good indication that someone was going to walk away from this storm with a tingling posterior.  I cringed where I sat reading and tried to make myself smaller.  Maybe if I could shrink into the chair, she wouldn’t see me sitting there.  But, it was too late.  Some Good Samaritan, possibly even a sibling with a score to settle, piped up, “He’s on the porch reading.”  Within seconds, the red hair which was attached to the woman I called Mama poked into sight through the front door.  “What have you done with them this time?  I’ve told you time and time again that those scissors are for sewing and nothing else!  You’re not to touch them!”

The jig was up.  I plodded, hangdog, to my room upstairs and brought down the implement in question.  I handed them to my mother, certain that there were more questions to follow.  I wasn’t disappointed.  “The blades are all nicked up!  These won’t cut anything now!  How in the world….?”  The explanation that followed was a little convoluted, but I’ll see if I can help you follow the trail.  Honestly, I used the scissors to cut cloth…at first.  The old jeans had both knees torn out and were frayed at the bottoms, so it seemed logical to make a pair of cut-off shorts, instead of tossing them away.  Those safety scissors in the desk downstairs just wouldn’t do the trick, so I commandeered the scissors from Mom’s sewing machine for the job.  I was carrying them down to put them away, when I remembered a piece of poster board that needed to be cut down a little for a school project.  The scissors were already in my hand, so the job was done in short order.  Moments later, before I had a chance to put them away, I saw that old hair dryer which I had picked up on the roadside a few days before.  There was a bevy of small wires that kept me from getting the motor out of the old piece of junk; really the motor was the only thing I wanted out of the whole contraption.  They were only small wires…Surely the scissors could cut through them like butter…

Yeah…my posterior did ache as I walked away from that encounter.  I think that perhaps I never bothered my mother’s sewing scissors again.  It is safe to say though, that I have frequently used the wrong tool for the job I have done.  Screwdrivers make pretty good pry-bars; pocket knives have taken their turn at turning a screw or two; I’ve even used the claw side of a hammer to chop through wood with middling success.  So, it’s almost comforting to know that the latest generation coming along now is continuing the tradition.

“Son, we don’t ever use a shovel as a knife!”  Lunchtime was over and we were enjoying the full after-dinner feeling as we visited.  The grandchildren were in the backyard playing.  I had noticed one of the children plying a small trowel which the Lovely Lady keeps for them to “help” with when flowers were being planted.  As the son-in-law and I gabbed in the den, the words penetrated the calm.  I could tell it wasn’t their Mom’s urgent “stop-or-there’ll-be-blood” voice, so I just laughed loudly.  I’ll admit that I had a fleeting image of the older boy, trowel held to the neck of the younger one, demanding a turn on the swing set, but if she wasn’t worried, I wasn’t either.  Hours later, the Lovely Lady told me that he had just been using the blade of the shovel in a sawing motion on the rope that held the swing up, so that illusion was destroyed.  It was gratifying to know that the young man has the ingenuity and sense of innovation to attempt the deed.  The tradition of using the wrong tool seems to be in good hands, so far at least.

I have broken knife-blades, twisted the tips of screwdrivers, and shattered the handles of mattocks; all while using them for unsuitable jobs.  I’ve heard the phrase “the right tool for the right job” more times than I can count in my lifetime, but it just doesn’t stick with me.  Constantly, my inventive brain looks for the tool that is closest which will serve.  I have lots of tools.  Chances are, I even have the right tool.  It’s just not convenient for me to stop what I’m doing to seek it out.  So, I break the wrong tool…and wish that I had taken the time to get the right one.

My cautionary anecdotes today may help you to make better choices.  I’ll be surprised.  It seems that we have to forge our own way, making mistakes along the way, sometimes learning, sometimes laughing it off.  In all seriousness, it does seem to me that in the area of our relationships, at least, the right tool is always appropriate.  The sledge hammer of anger and sarcasm simply cannot effect the results that patience and understanding will.  Argument will not serve when listening is called for.  I have often reached for the most convenient tool in these situations and have done more damage than good.  It’s the kind of damage that is most difficult to repair.  And, it’s not a bad idea to consult the Master Builder once in awhile.  After all, His instruction manual is close at hand.

As I go forward from here, this much I can promise:  I won’t be using the Lovely Lady’s sewing scissors to cut guitar strings any time soon, and I’m pretty sure the swing ropes are safe for a little while.  Apart from that, who can say?  Wood chisels and wrenches, beware!

“A sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.”
(Washington Irving~American author~1783-1859)

“If the only tool you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail.”
(Abraham Maslow~American psychologist~1908-1970)

Funny Bone

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I can’t install this nut.  You’ll have to get someone else to do it for you.”  Chuck stood in front of me, electric guitar in hand, with a look of abject disappointment on his face.  I couldn’t control the grin that spread across mine, nor could I keep him in suspense more than a few seconds.  “Okay.  I’ll install it for you, but take a look at this label and think about what it would mean if it really were accurate.”

I took the guitar nut he had handed me (that’s the bridge piece that sits at the top end of the fingerboard), fancy plastic packaging and all, and read it to him verbatim.  “Permanently lubricated guitar nut.  Precision engineered with Teflon, the slipperiest substance on earth…”  Trying hard to curb my laughter, I explained to him the difficulty I would have keeping the material in my vise.  Imagine the trouble I would encounter as I clamped down onto the slippery piece.  Why, it would be shooting out and ricocheting off the ceiling in nothing flat.  And, when I tried to shape it with a file?  I’d be likely to find myself smashing into the wall as the file (and me with it) slid off the top of the teflon.  It was permanently lubricated, mind you.

Chuck and I laughed, and I installed the part he had purchased from some online supplier.  The hype might have something to it, but the fifteen dollar price tag for a one dollar part smacks of snake oil sales technique to this old fashioned instrument repairman.  He was very happy as he tried the guitar in my store today, so either the nut was great or my fitting job was superb, but regardless, as they say today, it’s all good.

I gather up the funnies like coins.  This kind of currency is indispensable to me. It’s what keeps me going when the days bring unreasonable customers, as happened today, or I find myself overwhelmed by the sheer mountain of work waiting for my attention.  The list of times when I have need of these coins to spread around seems to be growing as I age.  It only seems fair that there are so many things with which to be amused.  It would be a great shame to miss them in the midst of circumstances that threaten to smother and snuff out the joy of living every day.  I’m still trying to figure out the exchange-rate, but I think the inflation of the difficult times has made the coins I have saved up worth much more in the present day.

The Lovely Lady’s father kept me going with his funnies all the time I worked with him.  I would be repairing a guitar back at the workbench and drop a tool with a loud clatter.  From the front of the store, I could hear his voice call out, “Did you lose a filling out of your tooth?”  In similar fashion, a customer might drop a heavy keyring on the concrete floor.  “I think you lost the set from your ring!” he would offer.  While the Lovely Lady and her siblings had heard them all and would just groan, I delighted in these gems.  I find myself using them more and more in daily life.  Why, just the other day, I belched after eating something my doctor would have disapproved of completely and the words from my mouth came unbidden.  No, it wasn’t the customary “Excuse me” I’ve been taught to say from my childhood.  Rather, the hilarious words popped out (much like the sound which preceded them), “What did you expect to hear?  Bells?”

Is life serious?  You bet!  There are so many junctures which demand sober attention and clear, pensive thought.  That said, it’s essential that we be able to discern the moments that are solemn occasions and those that are not.  Appropriate humor, shared in an appropriate manner, can diffuse tense situations, and relieve a combative encounter or even a frightening one.  I still have a problem telling the difference sometimes, but I tend to think that to err on the side of humor will cause less problems in the long run than the alternative.

My father-in-law had a little poem (from an old folk song, I think) which he would quote frequently.  It may have annoyed his wife, but I thought it amusing.  “When I was single, my pockets would jingle.  I wish I was single again…”  To my knowledge, he had no desire to be single again, but he was tickled by the sentiments that there was no extra money for the married man.  I understand (and identify) with the tongue-in-cheek verse, but I want you to know that my pockets are jingling with all the funnies I’ve been saving up.  I intend to keep spending them as needed.  I’m pretty good at collecting them, too.  Not much danger of going broke here.

With that, I’ve wasted about enough time on this for now.  I’ve got to get back to my hog-killing…(yeah, one of his, too.  What a great inheritance!)

“I am thankful for laughter…except for when milk comes out of my nose.”
(Woody Allen~American comic and film director)

“The person who knows how to laugh at himself will never cease to be amused.”
(Shirley MacLane~American actress)