Business

I’ve done business there for the better part of ten years.

He’s been there all that time, and, judging from little comments here and there, was probably there a long time before I ever came in.

The first time I did business with him I was almost sat back on my heels by his behind-the-counter behavior.

I wasn’t sure I had ever met a more unfriendly, gruff, or crude person.

I decided, as I left the place, that surely it was a one-time deal; I couldn’t see him keeping his job if it wasn’t.

But I found out the next several times I was in there that it wasn’t a once only deal.

When I meet someone like him, I think I respond in one of two ways.

I am either freaked out or feel so defeated that I make every effort to keep out of their way in the future, or, my interest is piqued and I wish to see what makes them tick.

After seeing another contractor getting the same treatment and handing it right back without too many bruises, either verbally or otherwise, I decided to take on the challenge of him.

I started small.

I began by being thankful for his service and, when it didn’t seem too intrusive, I tried to understand what made him happy.

Through the years I’ve found out that he—

Likes to gamble and is confoundingly lucky with it.

Likes mini coupers.  Especially black supercharged mini coupers.

Likes cigarettes.  Two packs per day, twenty per pack.

Likes L.A., and if he had the money, he’d move back there in a heartbeat.

Likes Taco Bell and Subway.

Likes guns. Assault rifles.

Likes women and thinks he has what it takes to charm them.

I’ve also learned that—

He had a very severe case of Meniere’s disease; so bad that he was rendered helpless on several occasions and once had to crawl from where the bus dropped him off by the exit off the interstate to the hospital.

He had to have surgery to eliminate the Meniere’s disease, but it left him deaf in one ear.

He was the oldest of 7 children, and, due to the disappearance of his dad, had to help with the raising of all his younger siblings.

He had to change his sibling’s diapers, and that was when they still wore cloth diapers, and then he was responsible for washing out the diapers and hanging them on the line to dry.

He is the fastest one to get my parts, if he is in a good mood.

He’ll say they don’t have or are out of stock of what I need, even if they do have it, if he is in a bad mood, leaving me helpless on the wrong side of the counter.

He has no scruples talking bad about or making fun of me behind my back, even when my back isn’t turned.

*****

Ten years is enough time to learn to recognize the subtle innuendos emanating from him when he is having a bad day, and I’ll give him space.

On his good days, I’ll give him a bit of a bad time about sharing his gambling earnings with me, or ask when in the world he is going to have surgery for that bad knee of his, or caution him about eating too much Taco Bell due to its explosive nature.

I could tell he liked my teasing by the way he handed it back to me and others with the rarest of twinkles in his faded old eyes.

I guess, though, that I’d need some psychiatrist to explain to me why I’m feeling the way I am about things today.

I walked in the other day with only two items I needed, and I knew about where they were in back, that it wasn’t too far for him to walk and in a jiffy, I’d be out of there.

Maybe that is why I missed all the signs, if there were indeed signs, because my order was so small, and I knew it wouldn’t inconvenience him to get it for me.

I sat in silence for a bit while he entered what I needed into his computer and then, still dialed in to what seemed big in my small world, I asked him why he didn’t have to wear glasses.

And the floodgates burst open.

I was deluged in four letter words that started with s, f, and a.

I was asked if I had anything at all for a brain in, again with very descriptive words, that head of mine.

For a moment I was too stunned to reply, and that is probably a good thing.

The next moment had me wondering if I should walk out.

Finally, I pulled together what little remaining self-worth I had and sat quietly, waiting for the storm to blow its fury out.

When it finally did, I gathered my two items, thanked him for helping me, and walked out.

*****

I dunno.

How should a person feel after something like that?

I felt sick, angry, and offended all at once.

For a few hours, I really had to talk to myself to keep from calling his manager and telling them what I thought of it all and where I thought he needed to go.

Each time I go in there, now, I hope like everything someone else will be at the counter to help me and that I won’t have to use him.

Regarding this incident, I think back often to a certain blog post by Seth Godin where he says,

“When in doubt, look for fear.  When someone acts in a surprising way, we can begin to understand by wondering what they might be afraid of.”

That helps to put it into perspective, but it doesn’t take the sting out of it.

Did I become too invested in the ten years previous?  Maybe, but I almost doubt it, because I could see early on that he and I would never click.

Do I feel offended because I wasn’t offered a fair trade for the efforts I made to make his world a bit of a happier place?  Again, maybe, but on the other hand, I couldn’t ever really tell that I was making a difference.

Perhaps it’s the injustice of being blindsided without warning in relation to a comment I didn’t feel was worthy of a fight.

I’ll keep going in there for product, because I have to.

Nevertheless, I certainly know a little bit better how I want my employees to treat any customer of ours, regardless of what kind of day they are having.

ed, or, ing?

Does it make a difference?

For sure.

Especially if it involves little humans and the word train.

To end that word with ed gives temporary relief to the urgent task at hand, but likely will yield disastrous results long term.

To end that word with ing may seem discouraging, and the task may look like it will never end.

And that’s the truth of it. 

It never ends.

And in a way, that is encouraging.

Because we always have the chance then, if we choose to take it, to improve on yesterday and seed hope for tomorrow.

Hang in there, young parents, schoolteachers.

Settle in for the long haul and enjoy the little moments each day with your little human.

Before you know it, the hardest part will be behind you and all you’ll have to claim are the memories.

(Thanks for the good visit today, Wes.)

Rite of Passage

Something happened to me the other day.

Sort of, you might say, a rite of passage.

But in reality, the rite of passage probably began almost forty years ago.

Let’s go back there.

*****

I’m a little squirt of a boy in the 3^rd grade.

I am easily distracted from the real work, which is, schoolwork.

One of the distractions is a new fad, or so it seems, that has taken my grade by storm.

I hear rumors that the fluorescent light fixtures in our school are emitting strange frequencies that slowly but surely knock out vision.

Lots of my compadre’s are getting glasses. 

Soon, I am one of the few who doesn’t have glasses.

And then, the scourge hits me, and I am squinting and squenching just to see what’s up on the chalkboard, let alone make out if it is a drawing or letters.

My mother and I make the acquaintance of a nice eye doctor who confirms the worst, or best, depending if you are one of the few who aren’t in the ‘in’ group who wear glasses.

The adults in my world see my new ‘look’ and say I look scholarly.

I’m not sure if they mean the way I look at things through my eyes, or what they are seeing through their eyes.

It’s not long before the frames on my new glasses are bent in different directions than they used to be, and the lenses are usually in a hopeless state of smudge. 

I develop my own unique style, like everyone who wears glasses does, of getting my glasses pushed back up on my nose without ever touching them with my hands.

But it’s not until that first Sunday that I get the shock of my life. 

I’m sitting on the balcony, and, I may or may not have been behaving when I glanced up at the minister some 100 some feet away, and saw his face looked really strange.  It was so narrow, and angular.  I couldn’t remember hearing of anything that might have changed his visage in such a way. 

And then it dawned on me; I slipped my glasses off, and he looked normal.  Just a long-distance face that had no features whatsoever.  I was amazed.  I finally decided that he must look ‘right’ with my glasses on, even though he really looked completely wrong to me. 

Maybe those lights over in that school room had really done a number to me. . .

*****

It’s about twenty years later, I am going through moderate to severe problems with my contacts.

My right eye does fine, but my left has an attitude of its own. 

The contacts are supposed to last two weeks, or, as it tends to happen with me, four weeks. 

At first, my left eye does its trick at about the three-week mark.

Then it dials back to two weeks.

Towards the last, it only makes it a week or less before it goes into extreme spasms and regurgitates my contact, after which I can’t begin to get it back in. 

My eye doctor says no more contacts.  My eyes are rejecting them from the almost twenty years of constant wearing them.

He suggests surgery. 

I’m a huge fan of his suggestion.

A few weeks later, we are in Oklahoma City, and, after 45 minutes during which I am subjected to two terrifying minutes when my sight completely left me due to the suction they used to immobilize my eye for the initial cuts, my vision is 20/10, and I walk out in a daze.

On the way home, I marvel at how I can read the road signs long before my wife and family can.  (I still can, for that matter.  Just had to toss that out there, for certain of my family to read.)

But alas, reality has other plans and strikes back. 

Literally.

Just like the first Sunday with my glasses, I come smack up against a startling difference.

I am teaching the 7^th and 8^th grades at this time in our little country school. 

Of course, it is my prerogative, as the only male teacher, to save face in whatever situation with my students.

Pre surgery, I employ several methods to do this. 

One is out on the ballfield. 

I am second to none. 

Every pitch is destructed under my merciless, unrelenting swing of the bat.

But post-surgery . . .

I strike out.

Every time I get up to bat.

Every. Lasting. Time.

And my students, at first quite surreptitiously, try to hide their smirks and gentle chuckles.

And me? 

I am flabbergasted at myself, and I let it be known. 

Of course, it’s the surgery.  It has to be.

My depth perception is off when I back up to trailers, so it has to be what the deal is.

But my students . . . finally don’t even bother to hide their smiles and their chuckles turn into real laughter, even as I vociferously speak my mind about depth perception and how I never struck out before the surgery. 

They just smile at that last remark.

*****

I stepped into my eye doctor’s office for a regular exam the other day, almost twenty years after the surgery that left me with stellar vision and a plummeting batting average.

I had a new eye doctor this time, like I had the last time. 

Seems like they are so young anymore, but, what with today’s beauty aids and all it’s not surprising they look that way.

The doctor suggested I get fitted for glasses.

She quickly propped up my deflated ego by saying that I had fighter pilot vision . . . long range. 

(See there, family?)

But then she held this little card up to me.  I think they spite you just by the size of the card to begin with.

And then they put this impossibly small print on it and ask you to read it in the presence of other young things in the room.

“Can you read the bottom line?” she chirped.

“Absolutely,” I said, before a little later adding, ‘not.’

So, I manned up and ordered myself some glasses, but only on a trial basis.

And today, I get them fitted.

And the young thing that is fitting them asks if everything looks all wacky, because, ‘some people go crazy with these for the first few days.’

And I remember, oh how well I remember, those first few days for my wonderful wife. 

I’m not sure who was the craziest by the time it was over, but anyway.

But I was delighted to tell the young thing that honestly, ‘nothing seemed too out of whack with them.’

She gave a knowing smile and said, “That’s wonderful!”

Upon which I got myself back to my truck and proceeded on homeward.

Other than putting a scratch on the right lens within an hour of being fitted all seemed to go swarmingly.

At least that’s what it seemed to be going like.

My neck began to tire quite soon from the rapid jerky movements it was subjected to due to eye commands.

And I repeatedly took them off to check for the obvious smudge that must be on them, because, just like post-surgery, it couldn’t be related to me.

And even as I type this, the computer seems to be playing a fiendish game of ‘now you see me, now you don’t,’ with the words and letters. 

But, perhaps, it’s the words of one of the sweet daughters that urges me onward.

“They make you look younger,” she said, of my stylish new glasses.

Which begs the question—What did I look like before?

Again, I’m not sure if she means the way I look at things through my eyes, or what she is seeing through her eyes.

This rite of passage looks to be a wiggly waggly walk in the park.

But I will admit, I have been getting mighty tired of taking pictures of any type less than say, a quarter inch tall, and then blowing them up so I can see what it says.

And restaurant lighting?  Don’t even get me started. 

What’s in a Win?

The instructions flittered through the group several weeks before the end of school.

There would be a contest, they said.

The Dads and their children who were in the 7^th and 8^th grades would be in this contest.

The instructions were basic.

The school would supply wood, kindling, matches, and eggs.

Each child and their dad needed to bring something to fry an egg in, and, if they wished, a hatchet or like instrument to chop up the wood.

No paper to help light the fire. 

No lighter fluid.

Just matches, luck, and wood.

Whoever could fry their egg, and eat it first, won.

My sweet daughter and I discussed different options to fry the egg in. 

She was more for the original route of using the skillet her mother used to fry eggs in.

But, her mother didn’t like that idea, thinking the fire would stain her skillet.

I, on the other hand, was thinking of the physics (if there is such a thing) of heat.

I suggested one of those thin disposable aluminum pie plates.  My argument was that if we got a big enough one, we could hold it right down on the fire without burning our hands and the heat would get through that thin aluminum much quicker than through a skillet.

The daughter acquiesced and other than deciding who would crack the egg, who would turn it, etc., our plans were made.

*****

The last day of school dawned brightly.

And breezy. 

I suspicion folks who read this that live down south might have called it windy, but no matter.

Us Dads met at the shop where the wood for the event was stored and took stock of the situation. 

There were nice sized chunks of wood that would take hours to burn down.  These, we pushed aside.

There was kindling, as promised, but it was going to need some pairing down if we were to expect even a prayer of a fire.

We set to work with hatchets, but it was tough going.  We mostly had chopped up pieces of still too big kindling.

My friend Travis had the real deal.  Having spent some time in the D.R., he knew firsthand how to get a fire going with only the bare essentials. 

He cut paper thin slivers and shavings off with his machete, wielding that two-foot knife expertly. 

He cut plenty, and, owing to his generous nature, offered what he didn’t need to the rest of us. 

I’m afraid I took more than my share of them, noticing how the breeze seemed to be picking up.

The time of the contest drew near, and we each staked out our area and set up camp.

The school handed out whole boxes of matches, even two, to some who asked for them. 

I was very worried that if we didn’t get it right, those dry fluffy shavings would go up in smoke and we would be left with the choice of either eating our egg raw (I never heard that it wasn’t an option) or bowing out entirely.

The daughter courageously played her part, cupping her hands right close to the flame I was touching against the little wood pile, risking getting a healthy burn out of the whole deal.

Our brave little flame took off, but the fire was still far too small to do any cooking with, and I could see we were entering the crucial stage where the shavings would be used up, and the larger kindling wouldn’t have caught.

Amazingly, the wind died down at that instant.  I couldn’t believe our good luck.

The kindling took off and we put our egg into the pie pan and spread as thin as we could.  The school board went above and beyond and offered salt and pepper to those who wished for it. 

Our egg was frying along nicely; I didn’t figure we would even have the kindling used up before it was cooked, as long as the wind stayed calm, like it was.

It was about then I looked up, having had my attention riveted to the fire building process thus far.

And I almost forgot to fry the egg.

There, on windward of our cheerful little fire, stood four of my nieces who had traveled out from Mississippi to be with us during the last day of school festivities.

They were crouching low to the ground, and each one had their skirt spread with their hands out to the side as far as it would go.

There was very little wind that made it through the barrier they were providing.

We finished right up and actually won that contest.

I heard later that some of the contestants used two boxes of matches to try to get their fire lit. 

But can you blame them? 

They didn’t have a living windbreak.

And who really won? 

Without Travis, or the sweet daughter, or those lovely nieces of mine, we wouldn’t have even made it to first base.

So, did we win? 

Is any win singular? 

It seems to me that every win out there has had participants who aided the process.

They say more than 400,000 people were involved in putting Neil Armstrong on the moon. 

Did Neil win?

Oh. 

Back to us.

The egg was really gritty, but it tasted okay.

Does it Matter?

A while back, I attended a Zoom meeting where the question was asked,

“How do you think you are known, or how would you like to be known?”

I wonder what the first thought was that flitted through your mind as you read that. 

Are you known as the person you would like to be known as?

Does it matter?

In a word, what is your identity?

And, how important is identity?

Very, according to my therapist.

Identity is the core of each person, and is comprised of three parts, she said.

Who I think I am.

Who my close friends think I am.

Who God thinks I am.

When all three agree, that is my identity.

And, it doesn’t take very much looking to see what happens when any one of those three doesn’t match the other two, or, worse yet, when all three disagree. 

I’d venture an opinion that some of the larger buildings and businesses in this land stem from such a disagreement.

Perhaps even national empires.

That they agree matters.

Undeniably.

Every Morning

I am planting wheat.

The field I am on is hilly, and I can’t always see the all the way to the end of the pass I’m on.

The tractor I am driving is old, and doesn’t have GPS on it.

Each time I turn around at the end of the pass I am dismayed at how crooked it is.

I look it over.  I make a plan to try to make it straighter this time. 

But it never works.  Each pass is as crooked as the last one.

I finally finish the field.

*****

The next field I move to was last worked with a tractor that had GPS.

I see the faint marks of each pass that the last rain didn’t quite wash out.

Each pass is arrow straight to the north.

I pick out a small furrow to follow and make my first pass.

When I get to the end, I see it isn’t too crooked.

But, as I turn around, I realize there is a new mark to follow.

I line up, set my gaze down the long straight row, and make the next pass.

*****

And then the truth tumbles into the cab with me.

The first field was like I tried to live my life for so many years.

Each day, I tried.

I tried so hard.

I tried to line up, but so often I couldn’t even see the end of the field, and my path got lost somewhere in it all.

And it was always crooked, and a disappointment.

And the second field?

Well, I figure that’s what happens when I let God help me.

And every morning is a new start; I forget the mistakes of yesterday, and I set my eyes down the straight and perfect mark set before me.

Twenty-One

Daughter of mine.

Recently, the calendar showed me that you had crossed this all-important threshold of age.

Which means, according to certain statutes set in place by this land, that now you can claim sole ownership of your person, mind, and opinions.

I suppose what I say next I should have said a long time ago.

Perhaps I did, maybe just not out loud.

And, I’m sure if I told you what I was going to say next, you would tell me, with your newfound independence, that you know what you know already and you don’t need my help on the matter.

That’s okay.

I’ll give you my thoughts regardless.

Because I know you’ll read this, if nothing else.

*****

I wonder how you would answer if I asked you what kind of marriage material you were looking for in guys.

And, I wonder what you think is necessary for yourself, should some guy look your way with marriage on his mind.

If you want someone who is worth their salt, look for whether they are kind to animals. 

And, I’m not talking the showy kind of kindness that they do just so the young ladies see them. 

Look for someone who the animals are comfortable around, or, even better, someone who the animals go sit by of their own accord.

Take note of who spends a little time visiting with your parents when you have your friends over for the evening.  He’ll be more likely to spend time with you later on, even when he has other things to do.

Don’t go for the guy with the most money, because, a) He may be living a sham to impress and really doesn’t have it, or, b) remember money is transitory, and may not be there later in life. 

It’s nice when the guys play with the little ones at your gathering, but it’s not a deal breaker if they don’t.  Some guys will play with the little ones just to try to impress. 

But.

If you see a young man who can kindly tell one of those littles to move along when they are being a pest, (because, trust me, they can be) mark him down as someone worth getting to know a little better.

Don’t scorn the fellas if they show off a little bit in front of you girls.  Take it as a compliment to your likableness; they deem you worthy of extra effort.  (I suppose if I am completely honest with myself, I show off a bit in front of you and your mother at times myself, for the same reasons. But then, you knew that already, didn’t you.)

Let the guys pay for your meal; don’t fight them for it, even if you are suspicious they may be paying for it with money they don’t have.

And then, put the amount that your meal cost into a savings account.  Do this every time someone pays for your meal.  You’ll never know how much your mother’s savings meant to me when we got married.

The money was more than necessary, with the way we started out, but her commitment to marriage, and that long before she met me, impressed me deeply. 

Oh.  And that meal you just let the guys pay for?  They notice what you order.  At least I did.  It’s okay to splurge once in a while, but expensive meals all the time can’t be maintained once you’re married.  Most guys know this all too well, even though they pay for your meal now without complaining about it. 

Don’t think you’ll impress the guys with 31 dresses and 27 pairs of shoes. 

Yes, I know they accent your beauty.  And yes, I know it makes you feel nice when you wear them.  Both are valid reasons to pay attention to how you dress. 

But overdone, and the guys are going to view you as a collateral hazard rather than a soul mate. 

You might try to use the argument that you won’t have to spend on clothing for a long time after you are married to justify how much you spend on clothes now, but I’ll ask you this.

Is this spending on clothing a one-time deal, or is it a pattern of the last few years?  And, may I ask, (discreetly of course) do you plan to stay the same size you are now for the next 5, or even 3, years? 

There are plenty of girls who run to help the hostess put on the meal or whatever is being served.  It’s fashionable to do so.

But your guy will watch to see who stays around to help clean up, when all the rest are off gallivanting around the ball court, lake, or wherever.

It may look like the guys are impressed with the girls who give them a good time at the drop of a hat, but your guy will want you around for the long haul, and he’ll for sure need you to share the bad times with him.

Finally, have fun, and enjoy your 21^st year.

Happy Birthday.  I miss you.

Close

I am sitting outside on the back porch in the shade, with a cup of coffee.

I hear the occasional truck on its way to some delivery on the highway, three miles from here.

The cool air rustles through the green leaves over my head, and I realize that the season is fast approaching when those beautiful leaves will turn to an even more beautiful yellow and will make a carpet for me to walk on.

Evidently, the neighbors, over to the south about a mile and a half have a new dog.  I hear it yapping away incessantly.  It would drive me crazy if I lived on the same yard, but it’s far enough away that it doesn’t bother me.

I smell the fall scents.  Milo ripening, damp grass, crisp clean air, and the sun just ready to burst over the rooftop.

Bryce’s dog, Jaxx, on loan to us while they are in India, makes his way over and sits down nearby me.

He is a smart dog, and full of springy strength that always amazes me with his quick, darting moves. 

We sit quietly together, and it’s not long before I feel warmth on my leg nearest him.

I look down and see he is sitting at least four inches away from me, but I feel his warmth nonetheless.

And I think of something I read a long time ago about two being better than one, because with two, one can help the other up, or warm them when they are cold. 

And I thought of my good wife, and each of my children. 

I thought of those of you who have stood by me when the going hasn’t been easy, and how each of your presence has warmed me with courage and new sight.

Quiet, gentle warmth. 

And the only way to feel it is to be close enough.

Tucked Away

I happened upon it by accident. 

If I hadn’t missed my turn, I probably never would have seen it.

It was tucked away on a little grassy hill, behind what looked like used to be industrial buildings now sitting idle.

I slowed my pace as I walked by and read the dates. 

1840-1860’s.

Much of the writing was too worn away to read much more than a name or a date.

I suppose there weren’t any more than 30 graves resting there, beside the alley in that small Pennsylvania town.

I thought of the graves then, and the graves today. 

I seriously doubted the embalming process preserved as well as it does today.

And, I also highly doubted that they had the heavy, concrete vaults that the watertight caskets are placed in today.

I imagined more of a pine box, simple and unadorned with its missive of grief inside.

Surrounding dirt and moisture having done its work, I guessed the pine box probably wasn’t there anymore.

And what of its contents?

Likely, pieces remained, either of clothing or of the human that once was.

But what would have been discovered, should the tombstones have been removed, and some unknowing residential renovator moved in with large backhoe and trucks tasked with leveling that particular hill?

Would anything have caught their eye?

Maybe.

But then again, for the sake of my train of thought, maybe not.

I wondered, as I walked on towards the Mexican restaurant that google maps pointed me towards, what purpose we have today in preservation of these earthly remains.

I pondered why God made us to decay so soon.

Sure, I have no problem honoring the lives of those we lay away.

But it seemed fitting, standing there by the hillock, to think that there was nothing left.

Except a seed.

And that seed only figurative at best.

But a seed, tucked away, that one day will spring forth out of the ground, bearing in its plant that which it was planted with, either that which flowers, or that which is something to be cast away.  

Because a seed can’t grow up into a different plant than it was planted as.

Chuck

After a nice breakfast of frosted flakes, topped off with Mama J’s granola and brown sugar, I made my way out back to where I had Bryce’s pickup parked.

I fired it up, and immediately regretted taking the pains I had when I charged his A/C this summer.  It blasted such cold air I was tempted to start the heater. 

I backed up to the gooseneck cattle trailer, hooked up, and pulled around to the back drive.

I went inside and mixed up a half bottle of milk and hollered at Chuck.

He came on the run and I opened his gate while he got started drinking.  Next, I eased him out and to the back of the trailer where I had the gate open. 

He was so interested in his bottle he hardly noticed the first step up; but his back legs didn’t like the jump, and that is where he stayed parked, front legs in, back on the ground. 

I called Mama J over to close the gate behind him and put pressure on him.  It didn’t work.  So, I grabbed his ears and hauled back for all I was worth. 

After he was loaded, I went to the north pasture, where I saw the rest of the group about a half mile out.

I eased in there to them, and Bozar met me at the back of the trailer, hollering and tossing his huge head around and generally blowing at anything and everyone. 

I tried a quick pat on his forehead, but saw it was no way this morning. 

Chuck unloaded, and suddenly swelled to half again his size when he saw the rest of the group.  He was important.  It showed all over as he went strutting up to each one and sniffed an acquaintance.

The group ran along behind me as I made my way back out, and for now, everyone seems to be getting along.

One hundred seventy five pounds of milk replacer, seventy five pounds of grain, and over one hundred and fifty trips later out to feed him, he now stands as a strapping 3 weight bull, minus his tail.  

Time will tell if he makes it, on his own out there, but for now, we know we did what we could for him.