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)

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)

“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)

“What is wrong with those imbeciles?”  The question echoed in my head as I labored to complete my task.  I was angry!  Why in the world couldn’t they anticipate that I would have had this problem when this guitar was being designed and built in that high-dollar factory, with its multi-million dollar machines for shaping the top and sides, the jigs for assembling and gluing the myriad pieces together, the plating process for producing the high-gloss finishes on all the metal components?  It wasn’t rocket science, after all!

What was this horrible design flaw that had evoked such an angry outburst?  Had they built the guitar with too short a scale, thus causing the instrument to play out of tune with itself, as well as any other accompanying musician?  No, the scale was perfect, the harmonics sounding clear and pure at each successive node; all producing the exact pitch anticipated.  That wasn’t it.  Perhaps, the structure was flawed, with a weak dovetail at the junction of the neck and body, causing a separation between the two components.  Again, no.  The structure was very satisfactory, with no imperfection to be found.  Then, was it the finish?  Had the factory technicians neglected to sand the sealer completely before applying the lacquer?  Were there horrendous imperfections in the surface of the instrument?  Again, the answer comes back.  No.

You see, I had spent an hour of my precious late-night time installing a pickup system in this guitar and I was to the last stage.  The holes had been successfully bored, the surfaces of the pickup and the bridge saddle matched exactly, all the adhesive pieces put into their respective locations.  The installation had been trouble free, but I was behind schedule if I was to have time to write for a few moments before heading to bed.  The final step of the job, installing the strings, was the simplest.  The new bronze strings would be laid out from the bridge to the tuning machines.  The little tapered pegs would push the ball-end of the string down through the bridge and then slip effortlessly over the metallic ball to lock it into place.  If the ball remained below the tip of the peg, it would certainly launch the plastic device like a missile across the room as the string was brought up to pitch.  Here was the essence of my problem.  This was the horrific design flaw over which I was angrily exclaiming.

As I struggled with each string, it was necessary to rotate the peg rapidly left and right, then left again, until it slipped over the ball-end of the string.  Why, I bet I spent an extra five seconds on each string, as it went on in its turn.  I griped the whole time.  Didn’t these jokers know that all it takes is a simple angle cut on the bottom of the peg to avoid this?  How much profit would it cost them to do that simple step?  What could it cost them; two seconds work, perhaps two cents a peg?  What short-sighted pencil pusher was insisting that they put these inferior pieces of junk in their guitar?  As I got more and more frustrated, I labored harder and harder at the process.  All of the sudden, a thought occurred to me!  What was I doing?  Why in the world was I struggling with this, when all it took was two seconds work to rectify the problem?  Taking a single-edged razor blade and cutting just the corner off of the lower edge on one side, the next peg was prepared before you could say “mountain” (or even “molehill”) and slipped easily over the ball-end of the string and it was done.  Sure, the better scenario would have been for the makers of this fine instrument to do the right thing in the first place.  That said, it was a huge waste of emotional energy and time for me to stubbornly do it the hard way just because they hadn’t foreseen my predicament.

Of course, you saw the solution all along, as I ranted and raved.  This is a frequent problem of mine…this over-reaction to miniscule issues.  There are times when I believe I’ve got it whipped.  I take pride in a small victory here or there; I may actually have been sensitive to my need to adapt just for once, and then something like this episode comes along to remind me of my propensity to go to pieces over nothing.  I’m guessing that we all do it though, in our own way.  “This is not my fault!”  You’ve said that, right? Or, how about, “It’s someone else’s responsibility”?  We justify our self-centered reaction by quoting our job description.  Never mind that the solution is within our ability, nor that the result will be the absence of the hassle and frustration of the ever-present issue.  Why not be a part of the solution?  We can “curse the darkness”, or we can “light a candle”.  Stubbornness chooses the former and stubs its toes stumbling around.  Wisdom always chooses the latter, and saves the pain and suffering for all within the light’s reach.

If some late night, you happen to be passing my shop and you see a wild character pacing the floor, and pulling his hair and shouting, don’t worry about me.  I’ll get it figured out eventually.  Just like the less-than-bright character in Tolkien’s epic books, I can see through a brick wall, given time.  Some of us are just slower at it than others.

“‘Then, I will do it myself,’ said the Little Red Hen.  And she did.”
(The Little Red Hen~American folk story)

“If you want a thing done well, do it yourself.”
(Anonymous)

Have you ever hit a barrier you didn’t even see?  Eyes wide open, watching where you’re going, and suddenly you’re stopped dead.  You probably think I’m talking about an esoteric principle, with some hidden, deep meaning, but I’m not.  Okay, to be honest, I may get to that later.  For now, I mean a real, physical barrier.  I remember the day I hit one of those.  It wasn’t pretty; all blood and screams, but in this case, there was no one to blame but myself.

Way back in my carefree childhood, the long days of summer meant freedom.  None of this “I’m bored, text me” garbage I read frequently from my young friends today.  We filled the days to capacity with adventure and activity.  Our only concern was to be sure that we got meals and were home in time for the curfew.  Other than that, we were up before the parents, fishing, or biking, or wandering the neighborhood in search of friends to hobnob with.  Biking was the favorite.  No, not the twenty-one or twenty-eight speed road bikes of today, not even the three speed axles for us.  We rode whatever we could get our hands on and we made them better (or so we thought).  Did you know that cutting the front forks from a thrashed bike and sliding them onto the forks of a functioning one would give you a chopper?  Okay, it was a poor kid’s chopper, but to us it was the ultimate in cool ( I think we actually said “neat”).  Miles and miles a day, we rode those monstrosities, caring not a whit that we looked utterly foolish to most onlookers.  Of course, being the youngest meant that I got the cast-off bikes, and on the day in question, I was riding a rusty old junker, which had not even the decency to have the extension forks added.

Now, where was I?  Oh yes!  The blood and screams.  After a day in the sun, I was headed into the yard for the last time.  It was approaching the time when I would be in trouble if I was late, so I cut between the trees in the side yard, instead of entering the property via the driveway.  As I flew over the handlebars, head first, I had a brief moment of clarity before the pain hit me.  That wire stretched between the two trees?  I had placed it there just a day or two before.  No particular reason, just had the time to fill and the wire was handy.  In my brief moment of clarity, as I flew through the air, I thought, “You stupid idiot!”  That was all the time I had, because suddenly my head hurt.  Worse; I was bleeding profusely from my right thumb, where my hand had gotten caught between the wire and my handlebars.  This obviously, was where the screaming came in, since that was what I was doing uncontrollably by that time.  Of course, Mom was there quickly, with first aid and comfort, along with a few pointed questions about the source of the wire.  The embarrassment of the injury being self-inflicted took all the enjoyment out of the bragging, which normally followed such an event.  Even when the thumbnail fell off a day or two later, there was none of the standard “show and tell”, which would inevitably have followed that development; the injured party in this case hoping for as little notice as possible.

As I considered that long ago event, I was reminded of a more recent occurrence, now part of the local lore, regarding a highway which had fallen into disuse and the lady who laid claim to it.  You will understand that I must issue a disclaimer regarding any concrete knowledge of the event, since I have not talked with any of the principals, but knowing the parties involved, it seems to me a likely scenario.  It appears that the state had built a highway nearby, with a shorter and straighter route up the hill from the river than the old road, so the aged one was used only in very bad weather.  Since the woman owned property on both sides of the old highway, she thought it might be nice to have title to that too, without the nuisance of strangers being able to drive up it.  Discovering a law that pertained to abandoned roadways, she sought to have the highway declared as such, but failed because it was determined that the road was still in use.  Her solution to that was to string a logging chain across the road about halfway up the part to which she was laying claim.  It was a disaster waiting to happen.

Late one night as a storm came in, an old farmer decided to take the old road instead of the new, just to be sure he didn’t have any problems making it up the very steep incline the new road offered.  In the dark, he didn’t see the chain which spanned the space ahead of him.  Fortunately, he was moving slowly and the only damage was that the chain broke out his windshield at it brought his vehicle to a sudden stop.  If some script writer in Hollywood had written the story, I’m sure it would have ended with decapitation and the roof of the car torn off completely.  More blood and screams.  Maybe it’s a good thing we just have the local storytellers to relate this one.  I’m not absolutely sure, but it’s my guess that traffic stopped moving up that old highway within a very short time of that event.

Is the story true?  I don’t know, but the truth it demonstrates is unassailable.  Sometimes, as in my childhood experience, we put up barriers in our own way, but frequently, the barriers just appear, through no fault of our own.  In such cases, if we can’t go through, we find alternative routes to get where we’re headed.  I’m fairly sure that driving up to the chain and waiting for it to be removed would have accomplished nothing.  Going onto the lady’s property to remove the chain would almost certainly have resulted in injury, since large dogs and shotguns always come into the local lore centering around property questions in that sector.  You’ll have to remind me to talk about a canoe trip the Lovely Lady and I, along with a few friends, took along the river down that way once, many years ago.  Sometimes the best route, when the immovable barriers crop up, is around.  As we say, it doesn’t do any good to beat your head against a wall.  The wall doesn’t feel it and the head’s function isn’t helped much either.

The simple truth is that we learn from hard lessons.  I never again rode my bicycle between trees without being able to clearly see the path I was traveling.  This, in spite of the fact that the wire came down the day after my accident.  Folks learned to avoid that blocked off road.  They still make the journey into town, just by another route.  We adapt, we learn.  Life is truly an adventure, with opportunities and disappointments.  The beauty of this journey that our God has set before us is that both the opportunities and the disappointments move us closer to our goal, both helping to equip us to make the trip in grand style, enjoying the journey.

Keep your eyes peeled for the junk across the road, though.  It seems likely that there may be more coming up…

“Failure is not fatal.  Failure is our teacher, not our undertaker.”
(William Arthur Ward~American educator, writer, and pastor~1921-1994)