No Blurry Spots

It’s been interesting, learning to wear glasses again.

Of course, there has been the adjustment involving the basic fact of having something on my face other than sunglasses.

And then, there is the fog issue.  I never knew how much face heat I exude.  Because, at very inopportune times, like at the local coffee shop the other day, when I was talking to the proprietor, I suddenly saw fog rising up and obscuring our view of each other.

What is a person supposed to do when such things happen?

Is it okay to whip my glasses off and take a little time to let the situation settle a bit as we stare, blinking at each other?

I’ve since learned a bit about this phenomenon.  All it begs is a bit of thought before I go into any business.  I ask myself if there is any chance I’ll get warm in there, such as if there is as lady receptionist who acts superior or condemnatory, or both at once.

Or maybe I know the item I’m looking for is going to be hard to find, and, when I ask the store help for it, it’s right in front of me.  If I know that is a possibility, or the one above, then it’s a no brainer to leave my glasses in the truck, even if it means going back to the old ways of popping a pic, blowing it up, and squinting for a few seconds as I endeavor to look like your typical, savvy businessman.

But none of this is really the point.

The point is, I don’t have any blurry spots to deal with anymore.

When I first started wearing these glasses, I was constantly dealing with blurry spots.

I even took them back to the doctor’s office and asked them to make sure the prescription was right. 

The pretty lady receptionist, sitting across from me at close range, told me that, “Maybe you aren’t quite used to looking through glasses with progressive lenses. 

I was really lucky I had my glasses off at that point, and I assured her that I had already acclimated to them, and I really liked being able to read without sounding like I really hadn’t learned to read.

She smiled coyly at me, and suggested maybe we should make sure they were fitted correctly so the progressive part was in the right lane of my vision when I needed it.

She took my glasses and was gone for quite some time.  I had to wonder if she was really doing anything with them, however, they did seem to fit better when she came back.

But I still had the blurry spots. 

I considered going back to the doctor’s office again, but what if I got the same lady, and what if she acted the same way?

So, I decided to tough it out.  Even if I was secretly disappointed in the doctor’s office for hoodwinking me about he benefits of getting these glasses.

But then an amazing thing happened.  And I really can’t tell you when or how.

All I know is that I was taking a walk, and suddenly I caught myself looking all over, at the ground, at the sky, at the weeds, at the highline poles.

It was amazing.  The blurry spots were gone.

I don’t know if it just took that long for the lenses to get broken in or what, but since then I’m a fan of what that doctor’s office did for me. 

I may stop by to tell them they may want to warn future patients that their glasses have a break in period where the lenses need to undergo some sort of metamorphosis, as near as I can tell.

The Poor

Psalms 41:1-4

“So, I wonder why you say so much about giving to the poor.”

“Why do you wonder?”

“Well, what makes the poor more eligible for my giving than something else?”

“Like what something else.”

“Oh, any number of things.  Like the new addition to our church.  Surely that is a good cause.”

“Sure, it is.”

“Or, what about the road in front of our place.  I hear the county is out of money, and there have already been two vehicles hit the ditch because of all the washboards.  What if I’d donate some time and equipment to fixing it up right.”

“Not a bad idea, not in the least.”

“There is also a place I could send funds, unnamed of course, that would help send the gospel and those going to people who need it.”

“Yes, again not a bad idea.”

“And then there are those who have just lost a loved one, and even though they may have a nice amount laid by, it seems like something I could do for them.  Because I finally don’t know what to say or do and it gets so uncomfortable just sitting there in silence.”

“Maybe.”

“You and I don’t quite seem to be meeting in the middle.”

“No, we aren’t, are we.”

“Well, what?  Aren’t you happy with my giving?”

“It feels kind of good to give the way you have been, doesn’t it.”

“Sure.  I mean, your Word says it’s more blessed to give than to receive, so I guess I’m entitled to some good feelings for my efforts in that area.”

“Oh, but of course.  Any type of giving brings with it its own reward.   That’s the way I set it up, in the beginning when I created everything.  It ensures that no one is ever forgotten for a good deed they do, regardless of their motive.”

“Motive?”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying there is more than one kind of motive for giving?  What kind of motive do you think I’ve been giving in?”

“Well, even though you give anonymously, you still must like to be seen, if by no one else, than by yourself.”

“WHAT?”

“Well, you ticked off a nice list of things you have given to, didn’t you?”

“Sure.”

“You always keep a running catalogue like that in your mind?”

“Probably.”

“The sad deal is, with that approach, I can’t help you much when it comes your turn to need help.”

“Why.”

“Because you’ve turned to tangible things and words from folks you’ve given to, to prop yourself up, and there hasn’t been any room for me to fit into that scenario.”

Deafening silence . . .

“It’s the folks you help spontaneously; the poor ones that you almost don’t notice as you drive by them.  You scorn them in your mind.”

“So what?  They’ve made their bed.  Let them lie in it.”

“It’s the kind of giving you do when you help those that counts with me.  Many of them aren’t where they are by their own choice.  They don’t have the added ability to help themselves like you do.”

“What if they use what I give them for the wrong thing?”

“Let me worry about that, okay?  You need to be able to give without any other responsibilities than to give.  If you give that way, it won’t be long and you’ll have a whole crowd of folks you’ve helped, and you won’t even know it.  But I’ll know it, you can count on that.”

“And?”

“And then, when your time comes to need help, the memory of all those you helped will be with me, and I, in infinite tenderness, will tuck you in at night. 

I’ll be your Father; and I’ll take care of you so completely you’ll have need of nothing else.  Not even the smallest, worrisome thought will harm you.”

“Oh.”

Midlife Crises

Uncle Google says a midlife crises is something that occurs between the age of 40-60. 

I’m prime property for such, the way it appears.

He says symptoms may include depression, remorse, or intense anxiety.

He also says it is largely psychological.

In my case, I was blind sided with intense anxiety that probably turned me into the psychological mess I am today.

As near as I can tell, my crises had it’s origins in a comfortable house located on Buggs Ferry road in rural Mississippi.

And to pin it down even closer, I think the process started about the time we were being served dessert.

Because dessert was the same menu as we had last time.

And I distinctly remembered the serious trust issues I encountered when I sank my teeth in dessert the last time.

Last time, the ice cream looked just as good is it did this time; Well, maybe not quite as good because this time it was home made.

And last time, the chocolate sauce had a thick saccharine look to it that had me watching it all the way around the table as it made it’s way to me.

I spooned an extra amount of it on my ice cream, last time.

And I set myself up for my first bite.

I simply couldn’t believe my first bite.

It looked so much like chocolate, but it tasted so much like peanut butter.

So, here came the ice cream this time.

And this time, I very warily watched as the chocolate sauce made its way around the table to me.

And I heard myself saying, “This stuff gives me trust issues.”

And I heard very much laughter.

Whereupon the host said he and his lovely wife had discussed how to do the chocolate sauce, with me in mind, and had decided not to subject me to such purgatory again.

But here is the problem.

I really liked the chocolate sauce they served the second time.

And if I’m not careful, I’m going to say that I almost like it better than the chocolate sauce that my good wife and lovely daughter make, the same chocolate sauce which I have vaunted through the years as superior to all other chocolate sauce.

Like I said, I’m afraid I’m in a midlife crisis.

The Joke’s on Me

Mama J kept telling me I needed new short sleeve shirts.

She went so far as to try to find me some online, but to no avail.

I wasn’t too concerned; my short-sleeved shirts seemed to be serving me just fine.

Sure, one or two had the collar coming apart.

And one or two had such bad sweat stains under the arms that you really didn’t want to shake them too badly around the table or the food might have taken on distinctly salty flavor.

One day it sort of dawned on me that while my shirts seemed to be serving me okay, they were probably making a lot of extra work for Mama J.

Upon which I started looking for new short sleeve shirts.

Now, if you’ll excuse me for just a bit, I need to eat a small helping of crow before I go farther.

Because it seems to me that I remember the boys very emphatically stating, while still in their teens, that certain shirt brands fit better than others.

At the time, I passed it off as peer pressure and didn’t worry about it much longer.

But it seems that I am a bit pickier than I used to be about which brand I wear for some reason. 

Different body shape may have some to do with it.

So there, got that meal polished off, and it wasn’t to terribly bad after all.

The day came when we drove past a neat little store that I like to stop in every once in a while in the town just south of where we live.

Mama J was with me and said she’d stay in the truck while I stepped in to look for short sleeve shirts.

I saw three immediately that I liked.

And they were the right brand.

That store has always been somewhat dimly lit, and when I was there, it was no different.

The yellow shirt caught my eye first. 

I don’t think I’ve ever worn yellow, unless I can’t remember. 

Of course, advertising companies say color makes all the difference and that yellow in a store name means cheap, but I didn’t figure that was the case here.  At least it didn’t cost any less than the others I was looking at.

I couldn’t quite make out the design on the yellow one, so I bent in for a closer look. 

Ah yes. 

Little yellow suitcases with neat little handles splashed all over in a random hodge podge.

I thought it might make a good vacation shirt, besides a good work shirt also.

It was the first shirt I pulled off the rack at home to wear the next day.

And that’s when I found out that the light must have been really realy bad in the part of the store where it was hanging. 

Of course it was. 

Had to be. 

But somehow, maybe sometime on the way home or maybe during the night while it was hanging in my closet, those suitcases turned into beer mugs full to the brim with a good head of foam on top of that.

Now what.

Easy

Seems like everywhere you look, some old person is shaking their head and saying with that sage tone, “you don’t know how easy you have it.” But I yell inwardly, I don’t have it so easy. Nothing is easy. It seems like every aspect of life can be plagued with difficulty.  Decisions, problems, trouble, is at every turn. Far from easy right? Ah yes, far from easy indeed, as I type this in my own bedroom comfortable after a great supper, a relaxed evening in a climate-controlled house. A vehicle sits in the garage and if I decide to go somewhere, I can leave in less than two minutes. I have a rough idea of what tomorrow will hold, for sure that the bare necessities will be more than supplied. I know that on Sunday I will be in church, safe, which is a luxury I rarely stop to think about. Easy? I am beginning to think that perhaps I do have it easy. Maybe I’ll break the mold and not wait till I am old and gray to shake my head, chuckle a little, and say, “you don’t know how easy we have it.” So where does difficult become easy? How easy does something have to be before it can be said, “now that is easy.” A family comes to mind. Actually, they were already on my mind probably because they just left my house a half hour ago. This family, especially the parents could teach me something about easy. In many ways they are a normal family. There is the mom, the dad, three girls, and two boys. I do not know the ages of any of them, but I would guess the oldest child to be maybe 12. Is that 6^th grade? I do not know. Anyways, age is irrelevant in this rambling monologue, so we will leave it to rest. They have lived in this part of the USA for six or seven months now and seem to be fitting in quite nicely. Easy, right? Well maybe, but let’s take a closer look. They moved here from out west. California I think although it may have been Nevada. The dad had a number of different jobs out there. He delivered appliances, worked for FedEx, and for about a year was in a luxury hotel in Las Vegas as a manager of sorts. Easy? I’m beginning to think less so. But let’s take a step further back. What about the time before California and the western United States? That takes us to a different country on a different continent. Belgium. Brussels, Belgium to be exact. That is where the dad lived most of his life pre-U.S. That is where he met his wife, and it is where a lot of their story begins. I don’t know how long they lived there. I don’t know a lot of details about them, although I hope to discover more as their story unfolds. He grew up Muslim, and long story short, converted to Christianity around twenty years old. As we know this is very serious in the Muslim religion. Long story short again, he and his wife were forced to flee. To stay would have meant death. Easy? Far from it. As far from it as one can get. For them, it was what they had to do. Leave home in Belgium and move to America to save their own lives. Bounce around the western United States trying to find a better life and good home for their children. Settling in our corner of the world and now so very thankful for a Christian church, new friends, and a good school for their children. Would they say it’s been easy? I doubt it. Worth it? I think so. I hope I can have just a little piece of their courage, even though I will never face the challenges they have. It’s okay if it’s not easy, just make sure it is right.

Guest Post

Finally

Sunday afternoon is when it happened.

I have tried for years to make Dominican coffee.

Each time I go to my friend Travis’s place, I secretly hope he’ll have some made.

And then I go home and try to replicate it.

But it never tastes right.

For a while, I tried it with drip coffee and experimental amounts of sugar.

I almost caught myself gagging once during that saga.

Then I tried it with an Americana.

This was closer, but still a far cry from the real deal.

And besides, it seemed I was gaining weight.

Lastly, I tried it with pour over as my base, but this was gibberish.

I tried different beans, but to no avail.

So, Sunday I was at Travis’s house.

And besides a super dinner of roast and ham, potatoes, lettuce salad and fresh buns of which I discreetly had three, I looked for the coffee when dessert rolled around.

But I was in for a disappointment.

Of course, the coffee they served was excellent; it just wasn’t Dominican.

I ventured to ask how they made it.

They brought out a special coffee pot they had from the Dominican and showed me how it was done.

I realized that although I didn’t have the coffee vessel they had, I had a Hario Technica Glass Syphon coffee maker that my family had given me for a special occasion that did the exact same thing as their thing.

I got myself home as soon as seemed politely possible.

I found all the equipment, including the dried-out filter that was still in the refrigerator where it was supposed to be in water so it would seal off decently. 

I got the Bunsen burner filled with alcohol, let the wick soak in it a bit and started heating my water in the electric pitcher we have.  (It would have taken too long to heat a cup and a half of water with that little burner and plus, I was anxious to see how things turned out, so I gave it a jump start in that pitcher.)

Next, I ground some Guatemala beans that my friend Emery had roasted to a fine perfection.  Even he admitted himself that they were good, and I’ll vouch for him.

I fired up the Bunsen burner and placed it under the bottom chamber.

I put a fourth cup of coffee grinds into the top of the rig and waited for the water in the bottom to come to a boil, whence it would be forced up the glass tube, through the grinds, and into the upper chamber.

After a minute, once all the water was on top and stirring it, I snuffed the fire.  In a few seconds all the water came back down through the grounds into the bottom chamber. 

I quickly found a glass pitcher, put a fourth cup of brown sugar (one of the missing details in all my earlier trials, and poured my brew on top and stirred it in. 

It was so good I told Travis’s boy Lane I could get drunk on it.

And the proof was the next morning. 

My coffee cup was stuck to the counter.

Who cares about gaining weight anyway when coffee is that good.

Blessed are the Children

I noticed it right away, but it didn’t dawn on me until later.

I noticed it when I was giving her a back massage.

I felt it in the muscle that ran from her neck down to her shoulders.

I felt it in the muscle of her upper back.

Each of those muscles were thick; much more so than a normal woman’s muscle.

And, then as I looked at her husband, I saw the same thing in his muscles.  (I doubt he would consent to a back massage from me.)

But the truth of it didn’t cross my mind until later.

Later, it all clicked.

Their daughter has a condition called hypermobility.

She was born with it.

Hypermobility is characterized by being double jointed.

Their daughter can’t do a lot of the normal motor skills that her age can do, because her joints are so extremely flexible.

When she tries to walk, for instance, her feet go sideways and her sole faces outwards from her legs.

She literally walks on the sides of her feet with no compunction whatsoever.

She used to sit for hours and played happily, one leg splayed out behind and the other out in front, both flat on the floor.

All of which means she is a two-year-old who is just now learning to walk on the soles of her feet. 

Little by little she gains and little by little she walks a little farther.

In the meantime, her parents carry her.

She’s the sweetest thing; I like to be with her, and carry her for as long as I can, but I can’t nearly as long as her parents can.

Because they have that extra muscle.

Muscle built by hours of care, and enduring love.

I’m proud of her parents.

But more than that, I’m proud, and feel it an honor to visit with any parents whose children have special needs.

It’s even better if I can make a connection with their children, whatever that connection may be.

Like the 13-year-old boy with autism.

He was being shadowed by his grandpa at the wedding I attended this last weekend.

Some might have called him a crowd liability.

It’s true, he did need more supervision than some.

And he was just hyper enough and hard enough to understand that I reckon a lot of folks steered clear, just to be on the safe side.

His Grandpa knew that, and was for steering him past me as he and I interreacted a bit.

But I wanted to talk to his grandson, so I placed my hand on his shoulder and eased up beside him.

He was hard to understand, and I knew I wouldn’t have long with him, based on my experience with autistic people, so I did what I could to set him at ease.

And almost immediately he calmed down, and, in his own way started communicating with me.

Our moment was soon gone, but it remains special to me.

Today I give a shout out to all those parents who have developed extra muscle, whether real or in the form of patience and a strong mind to continue in the trying circumstances that their special needs children place them in.

They have something I don’t have, and each time I am around them, I feel privileged.

Blessed are those children, and their parents.

Written in Red Beard

Belonging

I recently realized I had joined a club.

Not that there was any grand inauguration or anything.

Seems like it happened sort of quiet like.

I had suspicions I was soon to be inducted, but I knew my credentials were somewhat lacking.

Turns out I needed a little more time.

I think I knew, more or less, that I was knocking at the door when I realized I had joined the snooty nose folks.

And I realized that on the most everyday moment of the most everyday afternoon.

The surprise of it still surprises me.

I was in the electrical wholesale store that we use most of the time.

We’ve used it long enough now that I am getting sort of a feel for where things are and when the counter staff or shorthanded, I help along by getting some things myself.

Which means I am back in the warehouse area instead of the front.

In my defense, the warehouse area is sort of dimly lit in certain areas.

And so it was, that I realized I had assumed stink bug posture with my neck craned at a most unpleasant angle while I tried hard to focus the lower part of my glasses on the small gibberish written on a load center, that was almost on floor level.

About then, Kaleb, a young skinny buck, who usually helps me, came around the corner, and I realized the humorous sketch I presented. 

Up to that point, it seemed the decision was still out to jury as to whether or not I wore these glasses for real or just as a fashion statement.

I guess it sort of dawned in me, there in the fading light of the end of the aisle, that I must have unconsciously decided to wear them full time somewhere along the way.

Elsewise, why would I assume such a ridiculous posture and hold it long enough for it to imprint itself in anybody’s mind?

But it seems the advantages have outpaced the disadvantages.

For one thing, the gallery on my phone is decidedly less voluminous than it used to be, mostly because there are very few pictures of other gibberish that was just too hard to read without snapping a pic of it and quickly blowing it up so I could read it.

It is kind of sad, though, not to be able to be free of sweat splashed glasses by merely not having to wear any at all.

On the other hand, the sweet daughter says these frames do make me look younger.

But she is too kind.

The thing that cemented my fellowship in this club happened the other day.

I was buying my third pair of jeans.

The other two must have been sewn with different measurements than I am used to.

The waistline acted like it measured 30 inches instead of 32.

Finally, though, on the third try it dawned on me that I would have to make provision for the different measuring process.

The solution seemed so simple.

Go up one inch.

And just like that, I was good to go. 

Well, they do seem a bit saggy by the end of the day, but I’m sure it is because the waistline has stretched with wearing and not that certain other elements have sagged a bit as the day wears on, forcing them lower and lower.

Even though, for some reason, I tend to see about 3 inches of jeans that have nowhere else to go other than under my feet. 

They must have changed the measurement process on the length of the leg also.

It’s frustrating; I stayed loyal to that waistline measurement for the better part of 20 years.

I think I’m a member of the club, albeit a junior one.

Written in Scooters and Dallas Ft. Worth Airport

Dreamin’

‘You can’t laugh if you haven’t already laughed.’

‘You can’t drive if you haven’t already driven.’

‘You can’t cry if you haven’t already cried.’

So said one of the characters in my dream early this morning.

At first glance, those statements seemed like a duh to me. 

And maybe they are. 

Maybe they are conflicting statements, as in, take the initiative and you can do anything.

But as I drove westward this morning to pick up a couple of delayed shipments, I thought of them some more.

I’ve always had kind of have a thing when someone tries to apply anything and everything to some aspect of life. 

Maybe I’m vindicated on this one though; I wasn’t purposely trying to apply it to life when it suddenly applied itself to me.

(And maybe to any man, for that matter.)

For some reason, we men have this thing called an ego that takes an over proportionate amount of space in our lives.

When it does, each one of those three points suffers.

*****

‘You can’t laugh if you haven’t already laughed.’

Sometimes life gets too sober for us. 

We feel the ponderous weight of responsibility as it weighs down on us. 

If our word is taken as the end conclusion on the committee we serve on, we soon tend to think our sage advice is what buoys up the rest of the members we work with, and we try to anticipate the next problem or conundrum so that we can have an answer at the ready.

Such men are very difficult to work together with.  There seems to be an inordinate amount of pressure perceived from them to take their instruction, because not doing so will result in unwanted frustration and unasked for problems that their lofty position has foreseen.  You dwell under a continual threatening cloud of “See, I told you so.”

Another thing that happens when life gets too sober, is that we lose our smile. 

We lose the propensity to notice the most innate things along the road we travel. 

Because they aren’t worth our time. 

But life isn’t made up of singularly placed quite noticeable things that make us smile.

No.

It’s made up of hundreds of small things—the smell of spring air, the smell of feedlots, the sound of irrigation engines faithfully doing their job, or, my favorite, the sound of a distant train whistle, the sight of contrails forming a crosshatch pattern overhead, or a dog’s tail showing her enjoymentof our presence.

And that doesn’t even begin to start on the unending humorous things that happen when a family gathers for a meal.  (Such as a whole gallon of tea spilled on a carpeted floor because the sweet daughter and her dad got into a tussle of sorts.)  Amazingly, Mama J even smiled as I was down on all fours, scrubbing for dear life.

*****

You can’t drive if you haven’t already driven.

Surprisingly, we men who are made to be protectors and leaders, find in this our greatest strength also our greatest weakness.

Because we can be extremely lazy.

And it is most gratifying to be served. (Think ego.)

And sometimes it is most embarrassing to take the initiative in a public situation.

It takes courage to force oneself to break out of our comfort zone of lethargy and into a zone of humble leadership.

Leadership, when properly executed, demands submission of our idea to all ideas on the table until a wise choice of direction makes itself known.  (This isn’t laziness in the least, because the whole time we are fighting an inward war that wants to make our wishes known.)

Leadership means backing up more often than seems necessary.

Leadership means taking the blame of those under you as your own.  (Seems like there was a certain centurion that got this right some 2,000 years ago.  (Mathew 8:5-9)

Leadership refuses to micromanage. 

Try driving your truck and don’t let your eyes travel any farther than ten feet in front of your vehicle and you’ll get the idea of how disastrous this negligible and dangerous approach is. 

Leadership looks a long way down the road.

And whether the way looks easy or tough leadership continues with a steady hand on the wheel so the rest of his ride can function without the added worry of trying to steer the course besides their own duties.   

Leadership is risky. 

That is why it is so easy to hide behind a subterfuge of supposed intentions that are never realized.

*****

You can’t cry if you haven’t already cried.

Ego, again.

It’s so easy to present a tough exterior. 

Why?

Because we are scared we might loose our position of command if we let a little bit of vulnerability show.

We think softness is for pansies, and we think pansies are for the birds.

Go ahead, call it what it is. 

That thought process is degrading and categorically part of a caste system that we hope will elevate us in our social setting.

But a stern look, or a dent proof exterior creates a shell that turns into a prison known only to ourselves. 

It’s lonely inside there, and awfully uninteresting. 

I should know.  I lived inside one of those shells for the better part of 30 years.                      

Not being able to cry alienates us from those nearest to us and forces them to take a position never meant for them.

Which often involves making them need to share their deepest hurts and feelings with someone else or not at all.

Real men show real feelings.

And they aren’t cowards when they do so.

They are a great spreading tree with a cool patch of grass underneath it for those weary along the journey of life.

To stay tough and unbending stunts growth of the tree we are supposed to be, and the branches are forced into lifeless limbs that are eventually pruned off, and then the grass finally dies.

But some men stay as that unyielding stump all their lives, believing somehow that what they offer is useful.

And who in their right mind finds reprieve by leaning against a thorny stump in an arid plain?

*****

In the end, you can’t be any of these things if you haven’t already let yourself become them.

Written in Patrick Dugans

Pssst.  Jane Goodall just stepped in.  If any of you happened to read a post back in November of 22 with a title involving her name, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Except this is my third time meeting her here.  The second time I was unguarded enough to let my mouth get going before my mind did and I blurted out that I had written about her previously. 

Upon which she and I were both surprised, because we were still complete strangers. 

And then I committed an even greater crime against myself.  I offered to send her what I had written if she gave me her number, which she did.

But it never would send, and I felt bad about that, because I didn’t know where she lived or how to tell her it hadn’t sent.

In the end I thought maybe karma was saving me from my blunder and I was free of any obligation of sending anything.

Until today. 

I found out I had a 0 instead of an 8 in my phone number for her.

And her name is Kandy, not Jane.

93 Percent

They say we gather 93% of anything communicated to us through facial expressions.

The other 7% is gathered from what we hear them saying with their voice.

I admit, I was flabbergasted when I heard this.

Yes, I heard it; didn’t have the chance to see it.

I guess that is how a person would say it; the part about facial expressions, that is.

Reminds me of an old gentleman I really enjoyed visiting with.  He had a wealth of knowledge and even more of experience, but he was almost deaf. 

He would often say, “Turn the lights on so I can hear you.”

He probably had the jump on all of us when it came to communication.

Even though, looking on, we who heard probably called him somewhat handicapped.

It makes me wonder how it’s going to turn out for the future generations and who really is the handicapped one. 

Because I would hazard a guess that most of our communication today has a percentage just like we started out with.

Except it’s reversed.  We try to understand 93% of what is being told to us without seeing it.

And the remaining 7% we see, because we are actually in person, not hidden behind some digital device that we are relying on to do our communication for us.

Maybe this explains a little turn of events that occurred between my friend Jesse and me.

Now admittedly, I have several things against me when it comes to communication.

I don’t hear as well I used to. 

Well, wait.

I hear just fine.  It’s just that people tend to mumble so much more than they used to. 

I hear their mumbling just fine.

Another thing I have against me is that I seem to be scatterbrained at times.  For sure when there is a lot going on.

My wife will attest to this quite readily, but she’s too kind so you probably won’t hear her actually say it. 

(Or see it said.)

And the last thing that I can think of, is that I used to not be able to see all the letters in a text message and I had to always either be taking screenshots and blowing them up, or simply guessing. 

All of which is what I think happened the afternoon Jesse text me.

As far as afternoons go, it was a bit of a humdinger.

Some went so far as to call it the blizzard of the century.

I never heard if those saying that were older than me or younger. 

They might be right though, it was a nasty one, and life became all the more disrupted when the juice went off right before the storm hit.

So, in the midst of this seething storm and power outage, Jesse messaged me and, and as I read it at the time and guessed at what letters I couldn’t see, I was given to understand that he wanted one of those nice Generac generators that we sell installed on his property. 

I had a tiny reservation, because I knew he had been throwing a lot of money at getting started at a new place out in the country, (Sorry Jesse, I should err on the positive side not the negative,) so I messaged him back with ‘Serious’?

And he said, “Yep.” 

That much I got.

So, I ordered a genset. 

And when it arrived, I sent Josh and Bryce out to set it up for him.

It was a bit more of a complicated install, owing to the fact that we needed to turn on both his shop and house in case of a power outage, so the guys didn’t quite get it done on that first day. 

I planned to send them out the next day to finish.

But that evening, I got a voice message from Jesse, asking me to give him a call, and it seemed I could almost sense a bit of strain in his voice.

When I called him, the strain I suspected I heard seemed a bit more evident as he said, “I don’t know what happened, but it looks like we had a colossal misunderstanding.”

I liked his word colossal right off.

Turns out, he had correctly messaged me of his intentions, when I looked back at our messages, and took my time reading it, like I hadn’t during the storm.

All he wanted was a single switch that he could roll his portable generator out to and hook up during a power outage.

Obviously, the fault was all mine, and I have to hand it to Jesse, he had in him that courteous southern deference that I see so clearly in anyone who hails from the south. 

I sent the boys out the next day to retrieve that errant generator and install a switch instead. 

It’s like I tell the boys when things like this happen, ‘It’s all about making memories.’

And, this memory is a good one.

Because, you know what?

My wife is really pleased with the new generator she has to power her house now. 

And, if I dare say so, she was every bit the pleasant customer that Jesse is.

But of course, because she is from the south, afterall.

Written in Red Beard and KC window tinting