Lonesome Sounds

“Are you sentimental?” I asked my barber friend Jed as his clipper glided in measured movements around my head.

“Absolutely,” he replied.  “I have a whole chest full of things I’ve saved from previous days.  Things I go back and look at from time to time.  Things that maybe don’t mean so much of themselves, but for what they conjure up.

Are you?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, “because the more I think about it, the more forked the road of definition in my mind becomes.  What really is sentimentality? Is it different per person?  Is everyone sentimental in some area or another?  Or, are some not at all?  And are you sentimental just from certain times in your life, such as younger, more energetic times?” I wondered.

“Well,” he said, “My wife isn’t very sentimental.  She’s more of a minimalist.” 

A light switched on in my newly barbered head.  “Can someone be a sentimental minimalist?” I asked?

Because I was suspicious that if such a definition could be had, then maybe that would fit me. 

I ruminated on our conversation as I drove home.

When I sat down to the dinner table, I asked my good wife and sweet daughter, “Am I sentimental?”

A look passed between them.  That feminine thing of theirs got the question all hashed out and answered with nary a word said between them.

“Yep,” said the daughter. 

“Yeah, I think so,” said the wife.

“But,” I protested, “I just blew close to 10,000 files off my computer the other day.  Someone who is sentimental doesn’t do that!”  (That bit of info may alert some of you who hit me up for song copies as to your future success in such queries.)

“Yep.”  They both said it, almost in unison.  I knew the fight was over, and I have been left to my personal cogitations of it since.

Deleting those files made me feel as though I had just swallowed some powerful, cathartic drug.  And yet, I look at the worn spacebar that my right thumb has swatted innumerable times.  I see where the heel of my hands have rested, sweated, and sometimes shook below the keyboard in shiny spots that mark the pressure points.  I look at the worn area on the mousepad and think grimly that lately it has made me hit it fairly aggressively to get my demands. 

I think of all the journeys that this machine and I have made together, think of the different countries, cities, and locales we have visited together.  I don’t like to think of changing over to the new machine that is supposed to arrive here in a couple of days, and yet I look forward to the new machine.

I have this old backpack.  Every time I hoist its pleasant weight up on my right shoulder, or both, if it’s a long haul, I know I’m with an old chum.  Back in the day when I first purchased it, backpacks were a new thing to me, yet quite old by then to the world at large.  It has a buckle that got itself slammed in a door in Toronto.  It carries the faint, still familiar smell of McDonalds French fries purchased in Germany and portaged some 2 miles back to the hospital where my good wife awaited them.  Okay, it doesn’t still carry that smell for you if you pushed your nose into it, but it does for me.  It leans in to Indian food, anytime we are around it, because it was there, on site, when the real stuff was placed in front of us in that country itself.  It’s been stained with my sweat and tears both, and kept pace with me as I raced to a flight that hardly had the patience to wait for me.

It has a pocket where I know my wallet will be, and a place especially for my sunglasses.  This computer has kept it company in its rearmost pocket for about as long as I’ve had it.  If anything is missing from any of the pockets, a small bit of panic ensues, at least in my wife.  That all being said, though, I sometimes look at new backpacks.

But I’m not sure any of this defines sentimentality. 

Maybe it’s nostalgia I’m actually trying to define.

Recently, one of my friends who lives in Kentucky left me message. 

And I heard it, ever so faintly while he was talking.  A train horn.  It stopped me right there.

Another time, I was driving in central Kansas, and saw smoke up ahead.  I recognized it for what it was and had the A/C turned to outside air before we got there.  I inhaled deeply, for as long as it lasted.  It smelled just like it used to here in western Kansas.  You never forget a stubble fire smell.

An old friend of mine, I called him Uncle Alan, although he really wasn’t my Uncle, said the most lonesome sound for him was the sound of the table being set for a meal, and being sick in bed.  I dreamt about that sound as I fell asleep while sitting in ICU beside my wife in the wee hours of the morning.  It provided a sense of normalcy in an otherwise very unnormal time. 

I suspicion I don’t have anything definable or tangible to relate sentimentality to like my friend Jed, but maybe, just maybe, the womenfolk have a point.

Perhaps it’s like a phrase from an old poem that,

‘Somehow, I’ve learned how to listen

For a sound like the sun going down.’

And I realize the sun doesn’t make a sound when it goes down, yet the feeling it gives makes a sound to my soul that is peculiar and mysterious only to me.

Startling in their clarity and exquisitely beautiful are the charms of certain moments.

Three Cups

Pratt Kansas.  McDonalds.

At first, I saw very little.  Austin, Lindsey, Lexi, and I had finished up a lengthy round of Disc golf at the park in the northwest corner of town, tucked down behind the railroad tracks. 

That park is pretty enough and the course neat enough that I’ll go back sometime soon to play it again.

I think Austin finished best on score, and I came in close to the worst, but no matter.  When you can spend a good day with family, score on disc golf doesn’t figure. 

The day was hot, we were overheated, and the McDonalds building didn’t seem overly submitted to the A/C.

I began to pick up bits and pieces of the visual around me as I cooled down and the food and liquid started working.

I picked up on a family seated just to my right.  Grandpa, Grandma, Son, his wife who would bring their fourth child into this world within the week, and three children.

They were, if I were Sean Dietrick writing, your quintessential American family.

They were finishing up their dinner, Grandpa was stretched back in his chair, at ease with life and his family.  Grandma and daughter-in-law chit chatted about the latest things that the family had been involved in.  Son was sitting in the midst of it all, finishing up some of the lunch that his children hadn’t eaten. 

Their little girl, so happy with life and herself, got up from her chair and started meandering around the table in a random sort of way.  I’m pretty sure if I had been near enough and leaned over to her level, I would have heard her humming a tune.

She reached up to the table, took Grandpa’s empty cup, pulled the lid off, and set it on the empty table next to them.  Next, she got her brother’s cup and set it beside the first one on the table.  Lastly, she got her dad’s cup and set it up next to the other two. 

Three cups, all in a row, near the edge of the table, with the lids off.

Her Dad had been watching all along, and when she turned her twinkling eyes to him, the unspoken challenge was easily understood.

“Think I can make a basket,” he asked?

She nodded eagerly.

Wadding up a sandwich wrapper, he gave a toss.

“Aww, missed.”

“Try again.”

Another sandwich wrapper.  The first one had bounced to the floor.

“Aww, missed again.”  It joined the first wrapper on the floor.

Brother tried once and missed. 

Little Miss Twinkle Eyes fetched the wrappers from the floor without being told to and put them back on the tray.

The family resumed their easy conversation as the little girl happily resumed her seat and place among them. 

She belonged.  She added value to the family unit. 

She knew this, because someone took the time to play her little, insignificant game with her.   

Life needs to be like them. 

It’s not in the big showy things which cost a lot of money that we do for or give our children which make the difference.

No.

It’s the little specks of everyday living that fill the barrel of happiness and contentment to the brim. 

And while all those little specks seem so insignificant at the time, they count as worth millions in the long run of things, because, at the end of a good life one looks at his heaping barrel of happiness and marvels at such bounty.

Stop a little, today.  Find some twinkling eyes looking up at you and play their trivial game, even if you must sacrifice some pride in how you look while you do it.  Even if the restaurant floor needs to be cleaned up after you are done. 

Grandma and I met at the soft drink dispenser.

“You have a very nice family,” I said.

“I’ve been noticing yours,” she said.

And, God help me, I hope it was for the same reason I was noticing hers.

A Man’s Wallet, and Other Such

To begin on this subject begs for certain accusations from the gentler sex.

Because, a man in his right mind never tells a woman what to do; if he needs a change in what is going on, it is in his best interest to work the needed change into a suggestion that actually makes it appear like they thought of it themselves.

I’m definitely not savvy enough with psychology to know how to get that done in this subject.

But, seeing’s as how the sweet daughter plans to leave in about a month, and if all goes well will be gone for 9 extremely long months at a distance that takes 23 hours to drive, and seeing’s as how she suggested this subject, I’ll put this one on for her. 

She and I do fairly well in resolving arguments; I may be safe if nothing worse happens.

Perhaps we could say this is the sequel to a previous shot called ‘A Woman’s Purse, etc.’

Don’t—

Clean my wallet completely out.  But, to be right honest with you, it does make me feel pretty good when I see you’ve been in there, getting what you need.  Makes me feel important and necessary.  Just leave a little in there for when I’m really hot and I need a Mountain Dew asap.  It strains me a bit when I get to the counter and see I’m empty. 

Please don’t nag.  If I haven’t gotten done what you want done and you’ve asked a couple of times, it’s either because, 1. I forgot, 2. I procrastinated, or 3. I have something else that interferes, whether rightly or not.  Regardless of which reason it is, I need help with it.  Help me see what is getting in the way of getting your thing done by asking me questions that direct my mind into that channel.  Don’t forget that my mind works with one process at a time, two max, as compared to your mind being able to have 5 process’s going at once and all of them brought to a successful finish.  If you nag too much, my mind will automatically shut off the hearing sector (which happens to be super sensitive in males in nagging detection) in order to preserve the process already in place.

Don’t keep talking to me on the phone for any length of time if you sense I’m smoking to go.  I want to talk to you, but there are likely 57 other things in the picture, including a customer standing two feet away from me that I really can’t tell you about, or my hands are caked in mud and it’s smearing all over my phone, or, sweat is running freely about, temporarily closing off my ear canals and hindering my understanding of anything you say, to name a few.  If I’m the man I want to be, I’ll call you back when things have cooled a bit and we’ll chat for as long as you wish.  Just try to get over your tiff with me before I call back.   

Don’t flirt.  Unless you want to appear cheap, indecisive, and mildly disgusting. I know it looks like that is what the cool dudes like, but really, deep down, they don’t.

Don’t expect me to automatically cave in when you use the waterworks to get what you want.  (Because most of the time I automatically do cave in.)

If you are a youth girl, don’t snark at me first thing in the morning if you had a late night the evening before with your friends.  I don’t like to be a target for your inability to deal with lack of sleep.    

Don’t find fault with other people in front of our children; Don’t let me do that either.

Don’t let the house run down.  I’m talking within reason here.  But it does brighten my mood considerably when I step into a clean, tidy house.  I’ll understand immediately if it’s been one of ‘those days’ with the children or other things and it couldn’t be done.  I’m not talking about keeping it clean on those days.

Don’t spend ‘our’ money lavishly.  On the other hand, don’t be so fearful each time you go to Walmart.  The essentials will always need to be bought.  You don’t need to bear the onus of where the end of the month will find us.  That’s mine to worry about if you have been careful otherwise.

Don’t feel bad about stealing my food from my plate.  It tells me you approve of my choice, which is ego inflating.

Do—

Pick the lint off my suit.  On the way to church.  It proves to me I made the perfect choice for a partner.  I’m taken care of.  Pick it off in church and I feel like my mom just told me my ears were still dirty. 

Become interested in what I’m working with or doing.  Sure, it may be incomprehensible to you.  That’s okay.  They say a man naturally selects whom he thinks is the prettiest woman and endeavors to gain her approval.  You are my prettiest woman.  Even if you don’t have clue what I’m doing, find something you like about it and tell me.  It doesn’t have to be the same thing I like or the thing you think I want you to like.  What you like about it immediately becomes what I like about it when you say so.  Because . . . you are my prettiest woman when you say those things.  (That is, if you happen to be my good wife or one of my sweet daughters.)

Do tell me you believe in me.  Okay. I know I tried to be the macho guy back when we were young.  Every guy tries to be in some way or another.  But I was walking a thin string back then, and I still do today.  They say a man’s ego is the most fragile thing out there.  I’ll endorse that thought.  So, if I don’t hear your approval, I may start putting on a tough front.  But in reality, my macho front isn’t even skin deep.  It’s a paradox.  A man hides the very thing he needs most with the very thing he isn’t.  We’re crazy that way. 

Make my favorite meal.  But not too often that it becomes less than special to me.  You know the old saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”  Yeah, well, think twice about making that stomach too expansive or it may become a heart all of its own that is rarely satisfied.

Let me protect you by being dependent on me.

Laugh at me when I act stupid, even if you’d rather be embarrassed.   Unless I’m being stupid for the wrong reason.  (God bless you with wisdom to know the difference)

Go with me, just ‘cause you want to, even if your work has stacked up.  I’d really hate to write in your obituary, “She always got all her work done,” and not be able to write about our fun little trips together.

Refrain from chastising me the moment I lose my temper or some other dastardly thing men are known for.  We know we’re scuzzy already.  Come to me later and ask if I want to talk about it.  If I don’t talk to you, then I’m not a true man.

Tell me it’s okay to take a day off, even if I insist that I think it is necessary for the budget to keep going.  Otherwise, I may self-destruct with work.

Let me tease you, but not too much.  Know how to draw the line so that we both can laugh at the end.

Do, if you are a youth girl, behave yourself wisely.  You’ll be convinced you will be the most unpopular girl out there, but every lasting youth guy will notice you more with that behavior than the other kind.

Do, consider most of what you just read as nonsensical, having very little applicable value.

One Year

There is a folder in my Dropbox with the name, ‘It’s a Joke.’  Inside it are subfolders.  One is called, ‘Files published.  Another is called, ‘Guest Post,’ and the last one is called ‘Not finished.’

When I sorted the files in the ‘Files published’ folder by date, some had a date stamp of over a year ago.  One had a date stamp of 4 days ago. 

And I got a notice a while ago that a certain website was automatically renewing, which seemed to be the same website you are reading this on right now.

I never really figured I’d go a year.  I really didn’t think I had material or inspiration to last that long. 

Admittedly some may agree that I didn’t. 

What started as a hobby and with certain reasons to keep my mind active has exceeded my expectations.

I’ve learned a little bit along the way.  I’ve learned that just because I get the grins and giggles when I write it doesn’t mean anyone else will.

I’ve been surprised to find something that I wrote in a hurry in an Airbnb with very little editing seemed to be well liked.

As near as I can tell, there is no rhyme or reason to what goes and what doesn’t.

I’ve learned a bit more about the English language and how it is supposed to fit together, according to spell and grammar check in Microsoft Word.

One gal, who lives in Pecos Texas, commented on one of my shots.  She gave it a fancy name saying she liked my alliteration.  I confess I had to go look that word up to see what it meant, and I must confess further that after I realized what it meant, I had never meant to do what it says I did.  But I think she is more into the major authors, being one of them herself, and so she knows exactly what that word means and knows how to use it in her writing, I daresay. 

I suppose writing is sort of not considered Real Man’s Work.  I’m okay with that on most days.  Some days I cringe as I think what the average 46-year-old fellow must think as he studies his peer that throws nonsense and futility into the fiber optic line and then watches as it gets spread about the globe and lands in random places.  Does he feel sorry for one like me, I wonder?  Does he hope that someday I’ll grow up? 

It might be that this will keep going a while, and then again, it may not.  I don’t have any goals for it.

Neither do I feel like I have to churn something out each week.  I only write when I’m enthused about what I’m writing and have the time for it.

For now, though, this is something I like to do.

Runny or Not (here i come)

When I told my good wife the title of this and what it might be about, I got THE LOOK.

I’m still undecided what the full meaning of that look was, although I am quite sure as to part of it.

And if the unknowns of her look are what I suspicion they might could be, then this easily may be the shortest blog I have ever written.

Because it should stop right here if the rest of that look says what I think it says.

I’ll press on, though, and should what comes next become a defining point of separation in our marriage, at least it has been publicly noted and witnessed, thereby making it possible for marriage experts to trace the trail back factually, thus enabling them to write better marriage counseling lessons for future generations to come.

*****

There is a mysterious ingredient that cooks the world over have been trying to find, perhaps for years now.  Culinary experts, such as my good wife, and my sweet daughters, have known there is something that makes all the difference in a perfectly cooked dish.

But they are left with their hands in the air when it comes to determining exactly what that something is. 

I’m suspicious the reason I got the look is that my good wife sensed I had discovered that something, and it sort of stuck her wrong because it should have been a woman who discovered it. 

So, it seems I’m betwixt the frying pan and the fire.  If I divulge this information, as I feel I unselfishly must, the ladies will have their way with me and in the end . . . well, maybe the end is too sorrowful to contemplate.

The secret to whether your dish of food is raved about or not is all in how runny it is.

There.  Even if I say no more, with that bit of info your reviews should start picking up, although not as much as if I give some more detail.

I’ll list some specific foods to get you started, and then, should you realize the benefits of that list and want to add to it, and want to share it with me, would be great.

Green beans—

Cooked in water with onion and bacon—too runny

Cooked in water with onion, water drained off and cream added—perfect.

Cooked in water with onion, water drained off and cheese melted in, nah.  Too thick.  For sure when they get cold.

Chocolate sauce—

Runny.

Cooked and boiled too long so that it gets hard when you pour it on your ice cream—nope.

It needs to stay runny so that it quickly melts past your ice cream and forms a large pool hidden from view underneath the melted ice cream.  That way you can keep pouring for a little longer before the sweet daughter quips—”Having chocolate sauce with your ice cream or ice cream with your chocolate sauce?”

Steaks—

Runny is best.  No ands ifs or buts.

They can’t juice out if you intend to cure them well enough should you need some patches for your shoes.

Take them off at 135 degrees.  125 is better.  And that juice in the pan?  It’s meat juice, not blood.  Okay?

Meat loaf—

Not runny.

Resist every urge to take it out when the sauce is still red.  Let it go longer until it turns brown all the way around the edge of the pan.  Maybe even a bit on the black side.  This assures the center and all parts of it are done perfectly and have substance to them.

Casserole—

Not runny.  Almost 98% of all casseroles out there need to be baked, taken out of the oven, cooled, and then reheated for a meal later on.  This gives great consistency and helps dry out any remaining pools that are hard to consume by themselves.

Soup—

Runny.  You might say that is sort of a duh point.  But actually, it’s not.  Chowders are horrible when they start cooling down and congealing.  Unless you have done them right and they stay runny all the time, don’t expect folks to be asking for your recipe.  Chili soup, whether white or red, is some of the best soup out there.  Keep the solids/liquids at a low ratio and you’ll do just fine.  Add too many solids, and you might have an improperly done casserole on your hands.

Pecan pie—

Runny.  It is so disappointing to cut into a perfectly looking pecan pie only to find it stiff and unyielding.  Take it out of the oven when it still jiggles, a lot, and it will ooze out on your plate in the most delectable manner.  I have a saying about pecan pie, but I get THE LOOK each time I say it.  It has to do with the jiggles part, but I’ll stop right there.

Beef stew—

Runny and with lots of pepper.  Pepper and runny are similar in their ability to become that mysterious ingredient.  Keep your beef stew runny and kicking with pepper, and you might as well open a restaurant.  Folks will keep coming back and begging for more.

Chocolate chip cookies—

Runny.  By all means runny.  Take them out when they aren’t quite done and within 20 seconds of taking them out, drop the pan two or three times on the counter before transferring it to the cooling rack.  The benefits of this twofold process are enormous.  It brings all the chocolate chips up to the top and makes them visible.  If you can’t figure out what the benefit of that is, then don’t worry about it.  

While I could go on for a while yet, perhaps this will suffice to open your thought process on the matter. 

I’ll be hiding out somewhere for a while now until I know the coast is clear on the home front.

A Woman’s Purse, and Other Such

Allow me to open my mouth, and perhaps regret it.

In fact, I know very little, if anything, about what comes next.

But, for the sake of employing my fingers, and perhaps with a remote possibility that it could benefit or cause looks of scorn and disgust, I’ll continue.

There are some things that a man needs to know, and if he doesn’t know them, life in that situation can become stormy. 

I’ll endeavor to write some of them down, based on what I have learned in the storm, and what I may have been taught.

DON’T—

Ever rifle through a woman’s purse.  Even if she is your wife.  Well, I suppose most wives would let their men look in their purse to find something they need.  But don’t look through it greedily, as some archeologist expecting to find treasure and hidden secret.  If you want to maintain the friendship you have with her, then consider a woman’s purse off limits.

Her phone falls into the same category.  And if you want to make it even worse?  Act stupid and dumb and weird while you are trying to scroll through her contacts and messages, or, for that matter, try to unlock it in the first place.  More than likely, any woman’s phone out there contains less objectionable or secret material than any man’s, but it puts a severe threat up against them if it looks like you may be snooping around on it. 

The same holds true for her bathroom, if she has one to herself.

Don’t ever play unfair jokes on a woman.  Unfair may need to be explained here.  Fair by a man’s standard is automatically unfair to a woman.  No ands, ifs, or buts.  Fair by a man’s standard says a half to full cup of ice water can be tossed against another man with no serious offense.  Not so for a woman.  Remember, since it’s fair that you can toss a half to full cup on another man, then that makes it okay for a woman to toss a like amount of ice water on you.  But if you are tossing water on a woman, 3 to 4 drops better be the max.  And don’t ever think you can toss even the smallest amount of water, say fairly cold water, over the shower onto a woman taking a shower.  Even though, just very recently, the sweet daughter had, not a half cup, or even a full cup, but almost a pitcher full of water and jagged, sharp ice cubes that she dumped over the shower, altogether with the blessing of her mother, upon a certain pudgy man taking a shower.  That was perfectly fair, it seemed.

Don’t make a woman always pick where to eat when you both are in town.  It’s true, we men think doing so is a favor, and it might be occasionally.  But if you always make her pick, she views you as lazy, shirking your place, not a man.

Don’t EVER tease her in public.  She can tease you; it’s her way of being coy, sassy, and genuinely woman.  But if you tease her, it makes for an unfair advantage you are employing against her, besides assaulting the gentle nature you love so much about her.

If you are a youth guy, don’t think you have done your duty by asking if the ladies have enough room in the back seat and hitching your seat way too far forward as a show of macho manliness.  If you have my sweet daughter in your ride, then don’t think you can impress her with fast, dangerous driving.  Don’t.  It won’t impress her or me both; it will derate your standing in any woman’s eyes when you try to impress them with your driving.  They aren’t impressed with good driving either, for that matter.  It’s a nonissue with them, but bad driving will kill your chances quicker than some other things.

Don’t try to make a woman with a less than happy attitude happy by excessive happy comments and quirky humor.  Unless you want to see a rolling pin headed your way.

Don’t give advice when a woman is telling you, whether dramatically, hysterically, or very emotionally, the story of her day.  Hold your tongue.

Don’t try to outwalk her on a walk. 

Don’t throw frogs, even if very gently, towards a woman.

Or mice.

Or snakes.

Or spiders.

Don’t buy her the most expensive gift every time.

Don’t forget her birthday, or the anniversary you share with her.

Above all, don’t order flowers for her, and tell the florist, “Just pick something out you think a woman would like.”

Don’t talk in too friendly of a way with another woman.

Don’t walk in front of, or behind her on your way from the car to the church building. 

Don’t make a scene out of it if she makes a mistake, or scratches your vehicle.  Even if it’s just the two of you, don’t permit yourself any unkind words. 

*****

DO—

Become interested in stores that have home styles and décor in them.

Express an honest opinion on which baby clothes you think look the nicest.

Play Scrabble, or the game of her choice with her, even if you lose every lasting time.

Take walks with her. 

Listen to her, even if it seems like she is going on and on about something that seems trite to you.  It isn’t to her. 

Give advice, but only when she starts asking questions about what all she has just told you, whether it was told dramatically, hysterically, or emotionally.

Hold her. 

Do something, such as fix the bed or something else that is normally her job, on the same day each week.  It gives her a needed, expected break.  Doing one of her tasks unexpectedly is great, but the time between the unexpected’s can get longer than you think.

Take her or the family out for a meal at least once a month.  She deserves a break.  If your finances can’t handle eating out, make the meal for her.  Yes.  You can do it.  And she will be fine with it even if it doesn’t turn out. 

Do have the boys, (if you have some) do the dishes on a regular day of the week.

Do buy her flowers; pick them out yourself and sign the card in front of the good smelling, hand covering her mouth to hide her smile, clerk.  (It is always wise to get the spelling and the message you plan to write figured out before you go into the store.)

Do pick out a piece of material for her, all by yourself.  The room will constrict around you, the temperature will feel like it’s soaring to mid triple digits, and you will be unsteady on your feet for some hours afterwards. 

Do tell her she is beautiful.

Do hold the door open for her, or any other woman you may chance to meet at the door.

Do keep a sharp eye on the hem of her dress.  She’ll be very glad if you tell her, her slip is showing before you ever leave the house.

Do walk on the sidewalk closest to the curb, sheltering her on the inside of the walk, in case something on the street should come undone.

Do spend the unexciting days with her rather than going off on some high-octane trip by yourself.

Do surprise her with a gift every now and again.

Do change the baby’s diaper on a regular basis. 

Do admit you are sick.

Do admit you need her help.

Do say sorry, and that it is your fault, even if you are quite sure she is the one to blame.

Do buy flowers for her after she has delivered each child she has carried for you.  It’s the least you can do.

Do take her shopping, once in a while, for as long as she wants to shop.  (She won’t spend rapaciously, contrary to what you think.)

Oh, and if you are a youth guy—

Give any girl, not just the sweet daughter, polite, and kind remarks.  They notice it, even if it seems like so small of a gesture.

*****

I suppose the list could go on, and I suppose if you were writing it, it would have different things, just as important or more so, in it.

Anyway, maybe enough is enough.

Wages

Things were getting desperate.

I was a newly married young man, and the local economy had taken a serious downturn.

I figured I had it better than some; in fact, I know I did.  My job wasn’t the greatest, but it was something I was pretty sure I could depend on, seeing’s as how it was tied closer to human need and not so much to human want, like some other jobs.  Those jobs had been steadily laying off help in an effort to curb the rising cost of overhead and loss of income.

My wife was young and healthy.  I prayed she would stay that way.  Our finances were just barely making it around; if sickness hit, we would be goners in less than a month.  Our little girl was the light of our lives.  She played and sang the days through, tripping gaily around the house.

She had no way of knowing how desperate things were, and for sure how much more so they were about to become.  It didn’t occur to her to be sad, or anxious, haggard with worry.

And then.

I noticed my boss wasn’t himself that morning, and all day he seemed preoccupied with running errands here and there.

We managed to keep things rolling, and when he returned late in the afternoon to see a tip-top, clean and tidy shop with the day’s product sitting by the door waiting to ship, I expect a smile to break out on his tired face.

It didn’t.

Instead, he began weeping, and, as we drew near in quiet support, he told us that it was over.  His banker, also feeling the pinch, had tightened up his accounts by starting with those who owed the most, or were the greatest risk, asking for resolution to their debts.

As a result, my boss had to sell his shop in order to come clean on his debt.

I lost my job.

That was two weeks ago.

Now, I stared mutely at the last $100 I had. 

My wife had four dresses to her name.  One for church, and the other three to make do with evening plans (I didn’t expect too many folks to be hospitable now) and for daily wear.

Things weren’t much better for our little girl.  Her wardrobe was decidedly worn, and she was growing a little more, it seemed, each day.

I decided I would take that $100 and use half for groceries and half for clothes when I remembered I hadn’t paid tithe out of my last paycheck. 

Tithe would come to $90.

*****

Since the day I lost my job, I had been out early and home late every day, looking for work.

I was a desperate man on a desperate mission.  Every other man in our community was as desperate.

Low grade anger and frustration began to build as each day went by.

I began to loathe the field I drove by each day on my way uptown in search of work.  I knew I was targeting the man who farmed it with unjust anger; my feelings sort of boiled out each time I passed it though.

He was a newcomer to our community at the end of last year.  A quiet type, although easy enough to get to know once you were with him for a bit. 

I remember visiting with him back then, asking him what he planned to do.  He said he had bought this piece of land and planned to farm it.

He must have learned to farm somewhere other than close by; his method of farming and the way his field looked drew my attention early on.  It wasn’t conventional at all. 

When I had a job, that didn’t really matter.  Just more or less piqued my curiosity now and again.

Now, his odd ways of doing things downright irked me, and like I said, I knew I was targeting him.

His crop looked fine.  In fact, I’ll grudgingly admit it probably looked better than most in the region. 

But his rows weren’t very straight.  I wished I could show him a thing or two about how to pull a straight row.

And I couldn’t get a grip at all on what his plan was for the weeds springing up here and there.  As each day went by, they grew more, and he seemed completely unconcerned.

His apparent lack of foresight burned me up the most.  I mean, if you have a crop that is flourishing, and for sure in times as tight as these were, why not make sure of your investment?

It got to where every time I drove by that field, I had a plain ole mad going on by the time I reached the end of it.

*****

I remember I got up early, like usual, that morning.  Even though it was hard to muster up any enthusiasm for another day of what I figured would be fruitless job hunting, I knew I had to do what I had to do for my little family.

It was a cloudy morning and I wondered if it would rain before night.  I doubted it would; we were having some scorching hot days and I knew by experience that as soon as the sun came up it would burn away any coolness that lingered as fast as dry tinder in a firebox.

I was almost to the end of his field when I saw the sign, and him. 

His sign stated that he needed help chopping weeds.  I skidded to a stop.  When a man is as hungry as I was for work, anything goes.  Chopping weeds was a far cry from what I had been doing, but no matter.

I asked what he was paying.  He said I could have an hour off for dinner, start at 8 and work to 6 for $11 an hour or about $100 per day until the weeds were gone. 

I said I’d go for it and ran back home to get a rusty machete that had leaned against a wall for the last few years. 

I was soon hard at it.  I rejoiced that my good wife had persuaded me to go ahead and pay that tithe, even though I hadn’t wanted to at the time.  One day on this job and I’d have it back.  God is good, I thought.

From the bottom of the field, I looked back and was amazed at what I saw.  I saw a couple of other fellows, knives flashing in the sun, taking up where I had started.  I was a little grieved, knowing that their contributions to the project would cut hours for me, but I was also glad for the company.

It didn’t stop with them though.  By ten that morning, several more had joined.  I guess the hard times were affecting us all.  At noon a few more were in the field.  Later afternoon brought more. 

By evening, there were enough out there that it was obvious we would finish the field that day.  I wearily trudged towards the field owner to get my wages.  It had turned out to be a scorcher, just like I thought it would, and I was drained, both of liquid and of energy. 

I was so tired I didn’t pay any mind for a while, but then my subconscious started picking up on what was going on. 

I couldn’t believe it.  Everyone was getting $100.  It didn’t matter when they had started. 

“Hold on,” I shouted, “I’ve worked here all day.  Some of these guys have just been here two hours.  And they are the town loafers.  Everyone knows them for what they are.”

The mad I had carried so many days when I drove by frothed out and over everything around.  I was pouring sweat.  My head felt like it would burst with the sun headache I had acquired during the day.  My vision skewed. 

“Wait a minute,” he said.  “Didn’t you agree to the wages I offered?  And when you agreed to them, they seemed fair, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but. . .”

“Look, young man.  Look closely at those you called the town loafers.  Look at their feet.  They were prisoners of war, years ago, in a war that made this country, and your community what it is today. If they hadn’t won that war, you would be a slave, right now, to your neighboring nation. Their feet were wounded deeply by those who tortured them.  Before your time they were healed, but the damage remains.  Could they walk all day? 

Look at those who joined at noon.  Do you recognize them?  Their children and wives were buried, not so long ago, as a result of that horrible sickness that swept through.  Your house was spared of it.”  (I bowed my head in shame as I remembered those terrible days of death and heartache, and how I had piously patted myself on the back, thinking I must be living right to have avoided such a catastrophe in my house.)

“Look again, young man.  Look at those who joined in the morning.  Do you remember them asking for a job from your former employer?  They’ve been out of work longer than you, and I happen to know they haven’t eaten for the last two days.  They wouldn’t have made it this long if I hadn’t given them a little something to eat before they started.”

But I wasn’t looking at them anymore.  My vision had cleared, and I began to see Him for who He really was. 

I saw depth and understanding like I have never seen before in His kind eyes.  I saw tearstains in the dust on his cheeks . . . Had he wept with those who had so recently buried their loved ones? 

I saw His frame, lean and hollow, bent from weariness, and it was then I realized that vaguely I remembered seeing Him out and about on all those days I had scorned his farming methods, visiting those who were discouraged and poor.  His shoulders drooped, as if under a heavy load.

I saw His field, and suddenly I wondered, “Had he planted it with the sole purpose of helping our community in our time of need?”  Stunned, I realized it seemed quite likely that He had.

Lastly, my eyes fell upon his money satchel, and I saw, through tears that swam in my own eyes now, that He took the last few coins from it and handed them to me.

“Here,” he said, “Go now, and do likewise.”

U.S.

I like the U.S.

I like it’s too salty French Fries.

I like the super unhealthy deep fat fried food.

I like the smells of vegetation.  You don’t think about it, the smell in the air you breathe every day, until you visit another country and smell their vegetation.  Theirs smells good too, it’s just a smell that isn’t home.

I like the street system in the cities.  Most of the time it makes sense, and sometimes, as recently as Dallas, it downright freaks me out when I take the top interchange (5 high) and peer down several hundred feet to the ground below.

I like the smell of 70,000 cattle being fed on a crisp fall morning, as it wafts its way over to my place from the surrounding feedyards.

It doesn’t get much better than to see a 379 Peterbilt come coasting to a stop after a 600-mile run.  If you are lucky, you will see a puff of black smoke when he’s still down the road about a mile and after a bit you’ll hear the mellow tone of his jake brakes as he brings all the speed that his 500 h.p. has put down on the road to a stop.  He’ll sit there, his own heat waves shimmering and glimmering around the hood and off the top of his 6-inch stacks.  When he pulls away, you’ll see twin trails of black smoke and hear that sweet sound of a Cat urging the load back on to the road.  That’s about as bona fide U.S. as it gets right there. 

I’m a sucker for the sunsets, especially when viewed from the corrals west of our place.

I’ll take the wind; it helps get rid of headaches; some I know don’t like it.  Like the woman who stopped me on a round of disc golf and asked how in the world I could even throw in all this wind. 

I said, “Wind?” 

“Yes,” she said, “I could hardly drive in it coming over this way.” 

“But this isn’t wind, it’s only a breeze.”

“Breeze!  If you are from Minnesota like I am, this is wind.”

And I know the Moon looks the same from anywhere on earth, right?  But it seems just right, from here.

I like the friendly folks I meet uptown, who take time to chat with me and look me in the eye.

I used to dislike the sound of irrigation engines, thrumming away for days and nights on end, but nowadays, if they aren’t running it seems rather quiet.

Oh, and don’t ask my good wife what happens when we roll up beside a beautifully sounding Harley at a stop light.

Yeah, it’s a pretty good country, and a guy could go on with more of the good things.  The same could be said about the bad things in this country, there are too many of them.  But let’s not go there.

Every once in a while, though, here in this good country, I’m brought up short in my views and opinions by one that is better.

We sort of have this thing about how it’s all supposed to work, don’t we? 

Like, when we go through a drive through, we don’t want the person ahead of us to order and reorder, trying to use up their points in the best way, delaying all of us behind them.

Or we don’t like to wait at the window very long for our food.

There is a little blue bus on the east side of the town I do business in that I wanted to try.  I had heard they made some good Central American food.  El Salvador, to be exact.

I stopped there and found a better way.  No, this better way won’t work on a large-scale basis like we are used to in the U.S., but it works much better in some things, if you are willing to go along with it.

I stepped up and gave my order in my normal brisk fast food speak.

I wasn’t understood, and the question from the lady asking what I had said contained only two English words out of ten.

I got enough of the drift that she wondered if I wanted a bean and cheese pupusa.

“No, shrimp and cheese,” I said.

Again, we experienced a language barrier, and I was forced to cast about in my mind for a better way to say it.  I knew the word for shrimp in Spanish, but I could tell her accent was different enough that she wouldn’t get it even if I tried to say it in Spanish.

I also began to realize that I probably wasn’t going to get my food as quickly as the fastest fast line at a nearby chain restaurant.

A nice lady who was sitting in the shade nearby quickly translated for me; the matron smiled and told me it would be 15 minutes.  I told her that was fine, and I would wait in my truck nearby.

Fifteen minutes ran up and caught twenty when I saw her packaging my food.

I went to the window and asked for a Coke with my meal, but she was out.  Another small detail that we miss by getting just what we want when we want.  She offered me Sprite instead, and I took it, realizing I hadn’t had one in years.  It tasted perfect with what came next.

I took my food and found a good parking spot.  Already on the way over there, I was having gastric sensations that demanded attention as the olfactory sense made its way down to my hungry, waiting stomach.

This was my first pupusa.

When I opened the Styrofoam box, I was assailed with 20 minutes’ worth of goodness and goodwill.  I almost went back and gave the cook some more tip, even though I had left plenty already. 

For the next while, I was on a dirt street corner in a humid country with my freshly cooked, scorching hot meal in my hands.  I saw the cheese on the outside still smoking, and I saw, here and there, little happy pink shrimp swimming away in their new lake of white cheese, bordered, not by land this time but by the edge of the pupusa itself.

I tried the hot sauce and still wonder what was in it.  Its savory sensation perfectly accented the medley of flavor that was making itself known in mouthfuls of deliciousness.

It’s true, we barely could understand each other when I gave my order.  It’s true I had to guess at what she said the meal cost because my interpreter had left.  It’s true, I had to wait probably five times longer for my food than I would have at the nearby chain restaurant.  When I compared what I had to the instant, chemically dried, last half cent figured in for maximum profit food I would have purchased at that chain restaurant, I knew I had made the right choice.

It was the better way to go today. 

Some countries occasionally, and very politely I must say, show the U.S. that it simply ain’t the dude it thinks it is.

the boy

For those of you who haven’t heard the story lately, it goes something like this.

There were a number of young men, some late teens and early twenties, a few a bit older.  They found each other by mutual likes and pursuits and formed a sort of fraternity.

They were of the good sort, and it wasn’t long before they had a bit of a thing going on.  Their main goal was to act and behave like Christ; to portray his love to their fellowmen.

Folks started noticing them, and soon they were quite busy as a group, doing what they had set out to do. 

Whether they were good looking or not, I can’t remember.  But because of the unselfish nature of their work, they were well liked.

Soon they started getting invited to social doings, regardless if they had a connection or not.  The function they were at just seemed to go better if they were around.

One of things that made them popular, at least when they started out, is that they were impartial.   They didn’t make a fuss about who they sat by, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to be seen with the best and the worst in the same day.

And if you would have asked the best and the worst at the end of the day who they thought was the most genuine friend they had, they would have named one or some of this group right off.

But, like all good things have a way of doing, this one did too.  What started out good soon started grinding against too much.  Committee meetings started taking more and more of their time.  They found it impossible to be impartial like they used to be, simply because there wasn’t enough time in the day and enough men in the group to meet all the needs and commitments the people came to them with. 

They hated to admit it, but it boiled down to the noisiest and, maybe, the richest or more popular folks who got their attention. 

What was once a tight nit group of men began to fray at the edges as stress made its way in amongst them. 

They held on though; they kept going.  Even if keeping on meant, for some of them, living a fake. What was once a joy to do now was a task; what once warmed their hearts now irritated them. 

In just the last week, they had been asked to help at a wedding, a funeral, and then someone came and wondered if they’d come sing for their sick relation that wasn’t doing well at all. 

It was time for a break.  They made plans, and the next day they left as a group, to get away from it all for a few days. 

They had just settled into their vacation home.  Some were reading, others napping, and a couple were out on a leisurely walk when they saw a cloud of dust out in the distance.  For a while they paid no mind to it, but in a few minutes they were forced to reconsider as the dust cloud got larger and closer.

They began to see a mass of people trooping their way.  As they got closer, they started making out faces and bodylines. 

It was the same group of people they had just left!  And they had gone out and told all their friends and neighbors about the fame of them and what they were doing. 

They gathered around as the original group of young men looked on, dumbfounded.  Soon they were clamoring for them to resume their acts of kindness and good deeds as before. 

One of the young men suggested that maybe they should try to put on a meal for all of them, and once that was done, maybe they would leave.

Here was the problem.  These men hadn’t done many meals for crowds like this, and being in the remote place that they were, it looked practically impossible. 

A couple were for saying there was no way it would work; they’d be justified in that, they said.

A couple others were for going to the nearest restaurant and trying to buy some take out for the group, but as they looked the size of the group over, they realized it could easily cost in the thousands to feed them.  That didn’t seem feasible either.

It was about then they noticed a small boy, biting his nails, and looking bashfully towards them.  Something about him arrested their attention and they went to him, glad for a diversion from the current dilemma.

They couldn’t have been more surprised at what they found.

“What do you want, little fellow?” 

“I-I just thought I’d like to eat my lunch with you all, since you said you were soon going to eat.”

Looking on, I saw a couple them curl their lips up in scorn.  They furtively looked at me as they whispered about me behind their hands.

I saw one of them start laughing; he didn’t even turn away, just looked right at me while he laughed. 

Another one drew up in pious, and I guess what he hoped was Christ-like concern, and told me in a not so kind rebuke, that they were busy enough and didn’t need the prattles of one like me to interfere with.

I couldn’t understand it.  This was the same group I had seen, just a few months before, whose kindness and patience seemed endless.  Now it looked like each one of them was on the verge of snapping under the strain.

All but One.

He stepped up to me and our eyes locked. 

Time stopped.

The crowd hushed.

I felt love flow through me like I have never felt before.

I felt so comforted, quiet, and peaceful there with Him.

“What do you have for lunch?” He asked kindly. 

I wasn’t afraid to show Him, because I knew He would be good with whatever I had, contrary to what some of the rest of His group said.

He looked it over and His approval was evident.  “This looks so good!  May I have a taste?”

I suppose some will never know how He took what the others thought was useless and made something of it.  I heard later He fed 5,000 people that day.

Except I know.

Nothing had ever changed with Him. 

He hadn’t let the endless committee meetings, the clamoring crowds, the stress of the day, the popularity and success, or the long hours change or staunch the flow of His love.

Because when our eyes locked, I felt it, just as real as ever.

And what I had was enough for Him.

School Daze #2

I write this piece for two reasons. 

I’m still deeply impressed by it almost 20 years later.

If, perchance, the one written about reads this, then I wish to say thank you.  I have no idea who you are, but you made an indelible impression on my life.

I was sitting in on a lecture (at the teacher prep class) called The Art of Teaching.  The instructor was giving her presentation on the subject and doing a very fine job of it if I must say. 

She went through the three ways of getting to the students—heart it, see it, do it.  Which, by the way, I had not known about at all. 

Being the good teacher that she was, she incorporated all three ways of learning into her discourse, finishing up with a live representation. 

On the table in front of her she had the following: plate, knife, spoon, washcloth, bread (in a bag) jam (in a jar with a lid on), and peanut butter (in a jar with a lid on).

The lesson?  Make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Our instructor asked for two volunteers from the class of would-be teachers to come up there and teach her how to make the sandwich. 

To simulate the knowledge gap between the teacher and the student, our instructor did not allow herself to ask questions, but rather did as she interpreted the instructions given to her.

Our two volunteers began tentatively.

“First, get two pieces of bread out of the bag.”

Our instructor looked at the bag, which was still fastened closed, and finally started ripping at it, squashing the bread inside in the process.

One of the volunteers said, “No, take the twisty tie off first!” 

The instructor looked at the bag again and pulled at something other than the twisty tie.

“No, there, that thing!  Untie it!”

She fumbled and fumbled while the volunteers waited.

Finally, she pulled two misshapen pieces of bread out.

The volunteers were learning and gave a little more detail on the next task, telling their ‘student’ to unscrew the jar lid (she tightened it for a while), take the knife and put some peanut butter on the bread.

Our instructor grabbed the knife, sharp end first, and jammed the handle down in the peanut butter. 

“Oh, no!  You hold that end with your hand,” one of the volunteers said, and frantically looked around.  Whereupon our instructor turned the knife around and squeezed the handle, making little tendrils of peanut butter slide out between her fingers.   A few nervous giggles ran through the crowd as our instructor, after a brief pause and looking expectantly at the volunteers, dug out a huge glob of peanut butter and proceeded to paste it on the bread.

So far, the volunteers were getting the concept taught, if not in a rather zig zag way.

“Ok, next open the jam jar, take the spoon by the handle, and spoon some jam on the bread.”  This delivered with a bit more confidence in approach and style.  Our volunteers were doing better.

Again, our instructor looked a bit perplexed as she looked first at her peanut buttery hands and then at the jam jar.  She hesitated, ever so slightly, and in that instant my peripheral vision picked up a movement to my left side and a bit behind of where I sat.

“Stop.”

With one syllable of mercy, an end was put to the tense debate waged within our minds and to the impending disaster that could play out at any moment in front of us.

Our instructor stopped, hands midair, and held her pose while a new volunteer made her way out of the row of seats she was in and up the aisle towards her.

When she got to the table, she picked up the rag and in a quiet, and perhaps the kindest tone I have ever heard, told the instructor to extend her hands in front of her. 

She gently took each of them in her own and cleaned them off.  Next, she took each of the utensils and cleaned them up. 

When she had finished, she put the rag to the side, stepped back, and told the volunteers they could continue.

Her quiet kindness—her unwavering loyalty to the one under her charge—brought the moment front and center in supreme clarity to me. 

THIS. 

This was the true example of The Art of Teaching.  Because this, I realized, is the same thing I read in a certain Textbook that we are to do.  We are to lift the burden from the shoulder of the one oppressed.

No, we don’t give the answers, or try to slip around the problem in an easy way.  No, our Teacher doesn’t do it that way for us either.

But when we see those innocents in our care with a smudge of distress on their brow, be it from a math problem that has them momentarily confused, a scuffle out on the playground that has made its way into the classroom, or just a plain ole bad attitude that they really don’t know why they have, we help them clean up the mess they are in and direct them into a way that has a better end.

We let them know that we care about the lessons, yes, but more.  We care about making the road as easy as possible for them, like our Teacher does for us.

We aren’t dictators in an authoritarian role dealing out the power play to our satisfaction.  Because in that situation, we will always be frustrated at the seemingly dimwitted students we have, and we will never have the respect we are so anxiously trying to retain. 

No. 

We take their hands into our own.  We hold them gently, firmly, and with unwavering loyalty in such a way that they know we will never purposely let them drop.

Thank you, whoever you are, for teaching this to me, over there in that Michigan classroom.