“Mr. Phillips, I don’t ever want to see you ‘bird-dogging” one of my officers out here again!  Do you understand, sir?”  The words came out of the city police sergeant’s mouth, but I was still a bit overwhelmed by the flashing red lights from the three police cruisers behind and in front of my little 1972 Chevrolet Vega, all of them with burly, angry-looking officers standing nearby.  It was one of my few brushes with the law as well as one of the stupidest tricks I had ever pulled, but I was a man on a mission.

I spent a lot of time in my car back then.  Work for a local pharmacy delivering prescriptions to homes and institutions required putting more than a few miles on the vehicle daily in the medium-sized town in which I grew up.  Driving the busy streets, you were bound to see any number of patrolmen in the course of a day.  One thing, which they did frequently, rankled me and the annoyance built up day after day.  They would approach a traffic signal, only to see the light change to yellow, then red in front of them.  Instead of stepping on the brake, they would switch on the “bubble-gum machine” on the roof of the car, hit the siren once and sail through to the other side.  Now, I wasn’t a “cop-hater”, but this practice made me angry, I suppose mostly because it was something that I couldn’t get away with.  Like all the other mere mortals on the street, I had to come to a stop and await the green signal to proceed on my merry way.

Thus it was that one evening, I was out cruising up and down Tenth Street, the strip that everyone rode up and down when they wanted to see and be seen.  I was nearly ready to go home when one of these scofflaw policemen (now that’s a paradox, isn’t it?) pulled the usual trick as he crossed in front of me. I actually had the green light, so I immediately turned the corner and followed him to see where he was bound.  About a block past the traffic light, he turned off his lights and resumed normal speed along the avenue.  I was stupid enough to think that this should be an affront to me and started tailing him (see what I mean by stupid?) in earnest.  Several turns and more than a few blocks later, he turned into the parking lot at the police station.  Of course I cruised past at a legal speed, but twisted my head for a look at him as I passed.  He was staring straight at me and I knew I was in trouble.  I headed for home, but before I had gone half a mile, I looked in my mirror to see not one, but three cruisers behind me.  Another half mile and they had their lights on and I was forced to the side of the road.  No guns, but they were ready for trouble.  When they saw the skinny teenager in the driver’s seat and no one else visible, they relaxed a bit, but they weren’t in anything approaching an amenable mood.

Well, I listened to the sergeant’s stern words, but I was eighteen, you understand?  And, I wasn’t backing down, because I knew I was right!  I was shaking a bit, but I forced out the words, “I followed him to see what the emergency was.  You guys run these lights all the time and I wanted to know where he was going.”  Turns out, the cop wasn’t backing down either, because he made me understand that it was none of my business where the officer was going.  “For all you know, he got a call and then it was canceled.”  I was in a more timorous attitude by this time, but I still squeezed out one more quiet question.  “Does that happen a lot?”  By this time, the sergeant had had enough, but he actually let out a laugh.  “You’ll never know, will you?  Now, get home!”  I went home.

I can’t prove it, but I actually think the practice of running red lights by the patrol cars in my hometown nearly disappeared after that night.  I did see it happen sporadically, but I can’t say for sure the officers weren’t needing to get someplace quickly and quietly.  I do have to admit, it makes me laugh just a bit, to think about the Roll Call the next morning.  “Listen up, men.  We had a little run in with a skinny kid last night who thinks he’s onto a crime wave, so this practice of running lights has got to stop for awhile, understand?  All right now, let’s be careful out there!”  I doubt it really happened that way, but the mental picture is still funny.  Needless to say, I didn’t tail any patrol cars after that night!

Just a warning:  Don’t try this yourselves!  My youthful stupidity shouldn’t be an example for someone else to follow.  I don’t think I would ever pull a stunt this foolish again if it involved the police, but it’s a sure bet that there’s more stupid stuff where this one came from.   Every time I start to think that I’m going to grow up, the nutty persona takes over and off we go again.  Sometimes I do think that stupid really is eternal….

“I see no hope for the future of our people if they are dependent on the frivolous youth of today, for certainly all youth are reckless beyond words.  When I was a boy, we were taught to be discrete and respectful of elders, but the present youth are exceedingly wise and impatient of restraint.” 
(Hesiod~ Greek poet who lived about 700 BC)

I’ve long ago learned to ignore the emails that start out with, “We are being very happy that this letter is finding you well doing.  I am having the honor of being the solicitor for the late President Quasi Modo…”, since these are obviously fictitious and written by unscrupulous people trying to steal my money.  But recently, I received an envelope through the postal system with a rather official-looking logo as the return address.  As I pulled it out, I noticed that the paper had a very nicely designed letterhead at the top which indicated that the letter was from the “Colombia Who’s Who Among Executives and Professionals” (not the company’s real name).  I was intrigued to learn that I had been selected from among my business colleagues to receive the honor of being included in the latest edition of this distinguished journal.  I excitedly read down the page to learn more.

It seems that I have shown the exemplary qualities which are necessary to set me apart from others in my field of endeavor and because of that, if I would fill in the included application and return it to them, I could have the distinction of having my name included in their next “Who’s Who” publication.  There was absolutely no charge for being included in this prestigious volume, so there was no risk whatsoever.  Needless to say, I was all aquiver with pride!  Little old me!  Someone has finally noticed my hard work and amazing talent and wants to honor me for it.  Of course, I did what any red-blooded, proud human being would do and filled out the questionnaire, mailing it in the envelope provided.  

I don’t know what I was expecting.  I haven’t done anything noteworthy in my life, unless it was the time I went a whole year without washing my car.  In the music business world, I’m no more than a blip on the radar screen, with similar blips appearing in hundreds of small towns all around the country.  I haven’t achieved any significance in the business world besides enduring when others haven’t been foolish enough to continue.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not being self-deprecating here, not talking down what I do.  I’ve done this long enough to realize that my business has significance when considered within its context.  My little town is arguably a better place because of its existence.  But, I’m not a standout in the business world, not an executive with star qualities and I know that well.  But, just for a few moments, it was nice to dream.

Several weeks later, I answered the phone one afternoon.  That should have given the interviewer a clue about my real status, but she plowed right ahead.  The Who’s Who committee had reviewed my application and I was in!  All that we needed to do now was answer some questions to be included in my profile.  Moving steadily further into the trap, I answered the questions as completely as possible, imparting my great wisdom to the replies to ensure that the adoring public was properly impressed with my knowledge and level of maturity.  After a few moments of this, the trap was sprung!  “We have several levels of membership, some of which actually include your own personal copy of the publication.  Would you like to be included at the top level?  The cost is only $995.”  I was momentarily struck dumb!  It was nothing but a sales pitch!  The whole elaborate set-up is designed to stroke your ego to the point that you spend an astounding amount of money to prove your worth to your friends and colleagues.  I spent what effort it took to refuse (five times, I think) and then, having gained a modicum of my self-respect back, politely asked when and where I could view the publication to be sure my name was included at no charge.  There was silence for a moment and then the lady replied that it might be in the public library at a date that she could not specify.  I never heard from the company again.

I’m constantly amazed at how our human nature carries us down paths that we would never choose, given the time to consider the “big picture”.  Our vanity, our ego, drives us like no other master, causing all sorts of stupidity and tomfoolery which leads to extreme embarrassment in the long run.  Funny how something that starts out being about pride ends up in abject shame.  These are truly two extremes which are in a straight line from each other.  “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall,” is a much-quoted Proverb and is more often than not ignored, frequently to the chagrin of the arrogant bungler.

I have experienced that chagrin more times than I can count, but likely will repeat the offense again.  Some fools never learn!  I do however have a “Who’s Who” listing to add to my resume’, should I ever need to apply for a real job.  And, it didn’t cost a thing besides my self-respect.  I’m thinking that may be far too high a price…

“The truest characters of ignorance are vanity, and pride, and arrogance.”
(Samuel Butler~English novelist, 1835-1902)

“In heaven, I yearn for knowledge,
Account all else inanity.
On earth, I confess an itch for the praise of fools,
That’s vanity.”
(Robert Browning~English poet 1812-1889)

It was 1976 and I had been out of high school for less than a year.  I wasn’t ready for college, so I was working full time for a fire & safety company in my hometown.  We installed and serviced fire and burglar alarms, as well as fire extinguisher equipment.  Not the world’s most exciting job, but I was making some money and was happy to be working.  I had known my supervisor since I was a small boy, so there was no uncomfortable time of feeling each other out and no competitive hi-jinks that go on in many work settings.  We got along great and enjoyed our work, so life was good.

Many of you know that I love to talk, but Larry ran circles around me in that department.  The stories flowed continuously, mostly between the two of us, but frequently with strangers who we met on the job.  We’d be picking up our tools from an installation and I’d notice that he was involved in a conversation with the supervisor from the electrical crew.  The first few times, I assumed that they were discussing work related things, perhaps taking care of final arrangements for wiring up the alarm panel.  I would keep working at picking up the tools and tag-ends of conduit and wire, then would saunter over close to where they were still talking in animated discussion.  “…and wouldn’t you know, he was caught knee-deep in the sewer drain and couldn’t get out!”  The words would meet my ear and I would realize that it was another story.  So, I’d make my way over to the van and sit in the passenger seat, waiting him out, knowing that it might be another half-hour.  Larry could really tell a story.

Funny thing…when we were in the middle of the job, it was all work.  Measuring and cutting wire, installing pipe or a fire extinguisher, trouble shooting an alarm system, it was all the same…Go as fast as you can and get the job done.  But come the end of the job or the day and it was time to talk.  I suppose I gained a good bit of experience while on that job, not only in the manual skills required to achieve success, but in the verbal skills necessary to tell a good story.  I’d watch Larry’s hands as he described his escapades at college, or the faces of his listeners as they reached the point of boredom and I learned the important components to a good story, as well as the pitfalls of telling them.  I felt the pain of his shop teacher as he cut his hand on a careless student’s tape measure and was embarrassed with him as he told of his trick knee and how it trapped him into a distressing episode with a young lady.  I have great memories of working with and learning from him.  But I do remember a time when Larry was speechless and left a job without saying another word to anyone.

We had just finished up with an installation at La Plaza Mall, a huge new shopping complex  under construction on the south side of town.  We picked up our tools and headed out the side exit, but unbeknownst to us, the concrete finishers had laid a sidewalk outside of that door while we worked that day.  They had started in the corner where the door was and worked their way down the side of the building, about fifty feet away.  Larry opened the door and stepped out–into six inches of still-wet concrete!  I was right behind him and he hit me pretty hard as he jerked back inside the door, but he wasn’t quick enough to shut out the anguished “Aaaaaaayy” from one of the horrified concrete workers, who had seen nothing but a door opening and a foot plop down below it into their beautifully finished work.  They would undoubtedly have to return to that end of the sidewalk to reach over 8 feet from the edge and smooth out the significant divot that Larry’s big size 11 work boot had left.  It was the only time I remember leaving a job without a story or two, but Larry’s terse, “Other door!” were the only words I heard from him between that point and the time we were several blocks away from the site in our van. 

For just that one afternoon, the storyteller was speechless.  I am still contemplating the conundrum that, while I have forgotten many of the stories he verbalized, I will never, ever forget the story that quieted his loquaciousness, even if only for an hour or two.   It’s definitely not in the same context, but I think Job in the Bible put his finger on it when he said, “My ears had heard of You, but now my eyes have seen You.” as he repented of talking about things too wonderful for his puny intellect.


Maybe silence really is golden.  Of course, that pained “Aaaaaaayy” will always stand out in my mind as a potent communication in its own right.  And that’s a good reminder to this long-winded storyteller that the job is completed; it’s time to go home and to bed.

“My father taught me to work; he did not teach me to love it.  I never did like to work, and I don’t deny it.  I’d rather read, tell stories, crack jokes, talk, laugh – anything but work.”
(Abraham Lincoln~Sixteenth U.S. president)

“We want to hear music!”  The youngest has somehow pried my Swiss-Army phone out of my pocket and immediately the whole crew is present.  They realize, as do I, that this little piece of equipment is not about making and receiving phone calls, but is important simply for the entertainment factor.  Many days, the  request is for photos, but today the oldest, since last week a mature five-year old, is asking to see and hear one of the videos contained within this amazing hand-held package of technology.

The correct selections made, buttons pushed, and the two by three inch screen positioned for optimal viewing by five people, we begin the video.  For today’s viewing and listening pleasure: the Christmas Brass, featuring a hodge-podge of aunts, uncles, and a grandfather playing (or attempting to play) various and sundry carols and popular titles.  The performance is not spectacular, the technical ability of the camera person (in this case, the Lovely Lady) a bit inexpert, with the occasional finger over the lens and a little shake now and then, but the children are oblivious.  They sing along with “Jingle Bells”, periodically calling out a person’s name as they recognize them on the screen and then they yell out, almost in unison, “Another one!” when the current selection reaches its termination.  All in all, a fairly nondiscriminatory crowd, and to my way of thinking, the epitome of music lovers.

You see, these youngsters haven’t yet learned to dislike disparate types of music.  They’re equally at ease with children’s songs and classical music, cowboy crooners and rock divas.  They will bounce around the room to Bing Crosby, just as easily as to Garth Brooks or the New York Philharmonic playing Rachmaninoff.  To start to object to diverse genres of music, they need an adult’s touch.  We teach them to dislike sounds that are foreign or objectionable to our ears, just as our parents and teachers indoctrinated us.  Oh, we don’t always do it with words.  Many times, all it takes is for us to consistently change the radio tuner when that type of music to which we object begins to play.  If we constantly reject operatic singers who make their way into our living room via the airwaves, they understand that opera is inferior music.  If we repeatedly choose pop vocal music over anything else, they begin to see that this is better than other options.

And, what of peer pressure?  Granted, they will have an inordinate amount of that as they grow, but those children have had their musical worlds narrowed by adults and peer pressure also. In the end, the types of music youngsters choose will greatly depend on what they hear and learn in their early years and how we deal with the entire problem of peer pressure. 

Am I suggesting that we not have input in the content, that we allow these young malleable minds to be shaped by whatever medium happens to grab their attention?  Obviously not!  What I am suggesting is that we guide the process, while allowing a diversity of styles, yes even aiding the process by being sure to be diverse in our own musical listening habits.  I know I haven’t entirely succeeded in doing this in the past, because like all other human beings, I’ve been taught, and prodded, and shoved into the mold preferred by those who influenced me.  I do attempt to back off from my strong objections to, say, Hip Hop, when discussing music with the younger generation.  (Of course, you know this is not music!)  The strong caveat I offer to this philosophy of musical styles is that in vocal music, content matters.  For some reason, the idea of censorship is anathema to many, but garbage is garbage and has no place in the rearing of children.  The context of my  subject is the music itself, but don’t believe for a moment that I propose that we allow our children’s minds to be filled with the trash that passes for art within most of the popular genres of music today.  When our kid’s minds are filled with evil and lewd words, can those same types of thoughts and actions be far behind?  The Bible warns us that “…bad company corrupts good morals”, and I’m fairly sure that those MP3 players could be described as pretty constant company.

I’ve listened this evening to several different styles of music, each song recommended by a different friend, each one in its own way a joy and a benefit to the listener.  From the classical, to the country, to the Christian rock songs I heard, each one evoked a spark of enjoyment and was well done by the artist.  How dull and drab would be our world if we lost this diversity of styles and only had a single, sterile genre of music to listen to and be influenced by.  Give me the wide-open world of the child any day, with unlimited options and untarnished hearing.

Of course, they could choose better musicians than those old broken down horn-blowers, but that will come with time…

“Music is perpetual and only the hearing is intermittent.”
(Henry David Thoureau)

These days, I’m trying to walk the thin line between personal rights and being hospitable, that verge that separates personal space from people who need me.  Oddly enough, I’ve found that as the years have piled on, two divergent attitudes have developed inside me.  I have a strong desire to be left alone in whichever place I choose to settle, free from outside entanglements.  At the same time, I find myself more emotionally attached to family and friends, with reminders of family interactions or old pictures that elicit fond memories being enough to bring tears at times.  How can these two very strong and presumably opposing mindsets coexist inside one person?

Once more, I’m reminded that most of life is like that.  We want to do one thing and find ourselves doing the other.  Paul the Apostle had the problem, although arguably in an area which is a bit more weighty than my shallow issue.  He said, “Those things I want to do, I don’t do.  Those things I hate, I find myself doing.”  Like Paul, all our lives, we struggle to do the right thing.  The difficulty in my current dilemma is that it’s not about right and wrong, just about two different things that both seem really important.

I remember a conversation with my father years ago.  Some of his friends were angry to find out that he often turned off the phone at home, making it impossible to reach him.  His reaction?  “I put that phone in for my convenience, not theirs.  I can certainly turn it off anytime I want.”  Now, I don’t want you to think my Dad is an insensitive jerk, because he is definitely not that.  At eighty-plus years old, he still pastors a church and unselfishly keeps a daily schedule that puts me to shame, rising long before the sun to study, so that he can be available to anyone who needs him later in the morning, afternoon, and evening.  I do have to laugh, because his phone is never turned off now.  When he leaves his office, he is careful to forward all his calls to his cell phone, never out of touch with those who need to find their pastor.

I think of that conversation frequently now, though.  I am never away from contact, either by phone, or email, or text.  I have to keep a card in the Rolodex at the store so I can give the correct answer to the question, “How do I contact you?”  Cell, business, home, toll-free, and fax numbers all are near at hand, with the devices functioning continuously.  Daily all around me, phones ring, buzz, and play popular tunes, with customers holding up a hand to stop our conversation and turning their attention to the people in their life with whom they cannot break contact.  While I’m describing products, texts are being sent back and forth, my sales pitch only a small part of the information flow these folks are experiencing simultaneously.

Is it any wonder I want to yell, “Stop the merry-go-round!  I want off!” frequently?  The source of my need for solitude is the incessant barrage of communication, the constant stimulation of my brain with no let up.  The need for separation from the “madding crowd” becomes absolute.  We are not made for constant activity and conversation, not suited for the frenzied pace that modern life demands.

Balance is a good thing.  We need people, both family and friends.  We also need time away.  I’ve always loved that the Bible tells us to be still.  There are also plenty of instructions in there for actions, but we need time to detox as well.  The poisons of frenzy and urgency need to be cleansed away with the clear, cool water of re-creation, being refreshed and put back together.  Just as we have ministry to perform, we have the need to be ministered to.  But, not for too long.  If the being still becomes a way of life, the balance gets off that direction too and we’re of little use to those who need us.

I’ll keep heeding the two dichotomies, being there for the people who need me, but swerving out of the fast lane frequently to the side roads where I can putter along.  Both are amazingly rewarding when the proportion is right.  Who knows?  I may even start turning off all the phones once in awhile, too!

  
“You who seek an end of love, love will yield to business: be busy, and you will be safe.”
(Ovid~Ancient Roman poet)

“Snow tonight…Is that going to be the subject of your blog?”  the Lovely Lady asked sweetly.  My immediate and unpremeditated retort was, “Not on your life!”  Later, as I worked in the cold taking down the last of the Christmas lights from the gutter, an action prompted by fear of a repetition of last year’s sliding snow which destroyed the string of bulbs along with the mounting clips, I further resolved to ignore the falling white stuff in my nightly verbiage.  Again, as I sat in my recliner, with the gas fireplace roaring and snuggled under a blanket (wearing a sweater) to keep out the chill, I remained resolute.  Winter is the enemy.  I will not back down.  I will not waste time and words on this despicable season.  I have to endure it, but I will not acknowledge its power over me.

Of course, if you believe that I’m not going to write about snow, in the words of the incomparable Bugs Bunny (who stole them from the inimitable Red Skelton), “He don’t know me vewy well, do he?”  Certainly, I’m going to write about snow!  I’ve learned long ago that ignoring a disagreeable situation doesn’t make it any better.  Unlike my classmate from elementary school, a stout young man, I won’t hide behind a sapling covering my eyes and saying, “I can’t see you, so you can’t see me.”  A few winters have come and gone in my life and the best I can say of them is that after they come, they go.  But, they do go…

As a child, I always loved the idea of a real winter.  South Texas, where I was raised, didn’t seem to know the meaning of winter.  One or two heavy frosts in the season was equivalent to a mini-Ice Age there.  Snow was a fantasy we could only envision in our wildest imaginations.  It was only as a young adult in Arkansas that I first encountered a real snowfall and recreation in the wonderful white stuff.  Sledding, inner tubing, even finding a cardboard box to ride down hillsides in–these activities normally experienced by most in their juvenile years, I did for myself the first time as a 20 year old.  I loved snow!

Where it all went horribly wrong was the next spring.  The Lovely Lady (then just a girl herself), was involved in an event in a town about 140 miles away.  We made arrangements for me to meet her there, but the night before I was to leave, a heavy spring snow fell from the sky.  The state police issued warnings.  No one should travel if they didn’t absolutely have to.  I absolutely had to, so I left the next morning with enough money in my pocket for gas, an inexpensive meal, and lodging for one night.  About two thirds of the way to my destination, traveling about the same speed as other traffic, I felt my tires let go of the pavement and before I knew it, I was into the median, in mud and snow about a foot deep.  I tried every trick I knew, but I was stuck fast.  Walking along the road to get help, a tow truck, the driver “trolling” for unfortunates like me, stopped and the “Good Samaritan” asked if he could “help”.  Of course he could help!  Fifteen minutes later, the car was on the pavement and I was fifty dollars poorer.  I’m not sure I call that help!  Well, at least I was ready to move again.

I took off once more, getting a few miles down the road, only to feel the wheels turn loose again and I was headed into the median, seemingly for a repeat engagement.  Just one thought went through my head as I started into the deep snow…”I don’t have fifty dollars left in my pocket!”  With that in mind, I powered along through the mud and snow, never slowing, fishtailing my way back onto the highway.  All this, while passing stunned motorists who were intelligent enough to go slowly on that icy section of highway and could only stare agape at this young fool from South Texas who was obviously touched in the head.  Needless to say, for the rest of the trip I crawled along like the newbie I was and reached my destination without further episodes.

I think that was the start of my descent down the long, slippery slope to distaste of all things winter-y.  Don’t ask me to go snowboarding or skiing.  I will refuse.  No treks through the icy forest, no visits to the snow covered mountains.  Even tonight, my brain is working overtime trying to imagine ways I can finagle a couple of months off from the music store to find my way back to my old stomping grounds, just for the winter.  I don’t want to stay there.  I just want to camp out until the ambient temperature here hovers somewhere above the sixty degree mark and not anywhere near the bone-chilling readings which are forecasted for the next couple of nights.

One friend noted yesterday that spring is only ten weeks away.  I’m praying that she has miscalculated and it’s really just a few days…Otherwise, it looks like the winter grumpies are here to stay awhile.

“The more it snows (tiddely pom), 
The more it goes (tiddely pom),
The more it goes (tiddely pom),
On snowing.
And no one knows (tiddely pom),
How cold my toes (tiddely pom),
How cold my toes (tiddely pom), 
Are growing.”
(Winnie the Pooh from The House at Pooh Corner~A.A.Milne)

spp