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.

My Best Girl

She came to Kansas 30 years ago to teach 3^rd & 4^th grades at our little country school.

And just like that, a new world was ushered in for this Western Kansas boy.

But, she made it very clear from the onset that she was in this to teach, not for other things.

She would not get married just because lots of teachers end up getting married where they teach.

Neither would she marry a Kansas boy. 

She had her reasons for this, and they were good reasons.  I could completely identify with them once I traveled to her home state of Mississippi for the first time; I knew from that point on that the fight to claim her was going to be a difficult one. 

Little by little, one chip off at a time, her guard came down.  Until, if I was lucky, I would hear her honk as she went by on her way home from school, late in the evening.

And then one day I got a birthday card from her. 

I was stunned.  Was this for real?  Or was she playing jokes.

Again, bit by bit, the scene changed for both of us.  Although, I am quite confident if she could go back and do it over, she definitely would not be impressed with the ways I tried to impress her then.  I was desperate though, and at the time, I’d sacrifice my public image for a glance from her.

And really, if I got that glance, what did public image matter?  Because once the eyes meet, the heart is never happier and doesn’t care really, what others think.

My world began to take on dimensions far beyond my comprehension.

I found out about farm raised Mississippi catfish, deep fried out in the yard.  I ate so much of that stuff I was sure I’d be sick.  But I found out you don’t get sick from it.

I came in contact with that warm southern hospitality, and I’ve never been the same.  Even though it will never be native to me, I hope that in some small way I can pass it along to those I am with.

My first taste of Chinese food was with her.  And I know that having her there made it taste just like it was supposed to. 

I became immersed in family.  Family gatherings that lasted for days, not hours.  At first, I was gulping down the queazies, not sure how I was going to endure this whole thing when she told me what to expect.  But I soon learned that her family is the kind you would rather spend days with, and not hours.

Fried Okra and her are one and the same.  If we are lucky, tonight we’ll order a dish of it and snack on it together.

Because of her, I found gentleness in myself that I didn’t know I had.  And, God help me, I hope I can continue to learn more of it as life goes along.

I see satisfaction in the everyday things of life.  Whereas my life demanded the ultra before I met her, I now know that life can be happy with everyday life. 

I see her in each of our children, and rejoice that because of her, they have every chance to make it in life.

Twenty-six years ago, today.

My Best Girl.  Forever.

Better than I was,

More than I am,

And all of this happened,

By taking your hand.

School Daze #1

Let’s be clear.  Very clear, in fact. 

I shudder at some of the things that I tried, and I shudder more when I think of what I put those folks so dear to me today through.

If there happens to be any aspiring teachers that read this, I can furnish you names of my school board during that time; I’m sure after your visit with them, you will be duly recommended to a path dissimilar to what you are about to read.

There.  I feel better now.

*****

It’s soon going to be 20 years ago that I went to the east door of the John Deere mechanic shop where I had worked for the previous 7 years, and lingered. 

I lingered for quite some time.  I had found a home there, coming in green as a gourd about mechanical issues, and, thanks to the kindness of the folks I worked with, had become somewhat adept at that which I knew nothing of earlier.

I lingered because of the friends I was going to leave behind.  I knew, even then, some of those friends didn’t think this new venture was going to work, and expected me back within a year, maybe two.

I lingered, even though there was no one else in the shop, and breathed in deeply of the smell of cleaning solvent, brake and parts cleaner, grease, oil, stale exhaust fumes, and the companionable smell of Sam’s cigarette smoke.

Finally, I pushed the door open, and walked out to my truck, now heavily loaded with all my tools and accompaniments of the trade that I had acquired through the years.  It stopped me in my tracks as I looked it over, realizing that I had started with nothing.  No tools, and no money to buy tools. 

I still have most of those tools today. 

But let’s not get off the subject.

I got the books from school room I was to inhabit for the next 5 years and took them home with me. 

As near as I know, I think I had set foot in a classroom like this once, since I had left there 14 years previous.

There was a very distinct feeling that I was back at square one again, just like the beginning day at John Deere. 

I knew nothing about it, and I had no tools with which to ply the trade.

The books I took home had all I needed to be a good teacher.  However, I didn’t know how to interpret them.  There were things that I understood easily, and then some things that made no sense whatsoever. 

Like proportions. 

And DO’s.

And IO’s.

Or, have mercy, transitive verbs.  And what in the world was an indirect object pronoun?

I looked down at my still grease stained fingers with white scars shining through here and there, reminders of the days just vacated, as they clumsily paged through those books and almost rang the bell right then and there.

But it was interesting reading.  At least the science books.  And it seemed like a little light was beginning to shine, way down in the distance.  I was beginning the think of ways to talk about this stuff with . . . I guess with my students.

My school board bought me a ticket to Ithaca, Michigan for a Teacher’s Prep class that consisted of 3 days of intense preparation, after which I was supposed to be ready to face the world of a schoolteacher with confidence.

They said all kinds of nice things to me there, like, “Oh, you are going to be a natural at it,” and “Yeah, since you are married, you already have a big jump on this.”

And I sucked it up and believed them.  Maybe even pushed my chest out a bit.

Until they had a workshop going, and asked all the students of that class (of which I was one) to come up to the chalk board and diagram the sentence written there.

“Come with me,” I hissed to my good wife.

I found the subject, and next the verb. 

And then that was it.  The rest of the sentence blurred off into total obscurity. 

I hunched up against my good wife in what I hoped was a gesture of affection to those seated and  looking on from behind us and whispered, “What’s that word?,” and pointed, sort of, from my waist, and sort of, with my thumb let’s say, in what I hoped was a very discreet action on my part.

She, being of a very kind and generous nature, surprised me senseless when she said, “Well, what do you think it is?  Do you think it is a pronoun, preposition, or . . .” 

I’m pretty sure I saw her make a supreme effort to hide the smirk twitching at the corner of her beautiful lips.

I was pouring sweat in a room full of females, and it wasn’t because I was some hot dude by their standards. 

This was a setup, and I knew it. 

Or maybe it wasn’t. 

Maybe, it was a precursor of what was to come, and I needed to meet it head on, with the wonder humility of a child.

Because in the end, that’s what I was. 

I was a student with each of my students.     

India #6

I made a mistake, there in New Delhi, at 2 in the morning.  But as soon as I saw the impending disaster of my mistake, I quickly corrected it and didn’t make it again, the whole time we stayed in India.

My Dad instinct kicked in, once the happy reunion was coming to a close, and I started looking for transportation.  Funny thing was, I had no clue where we were going for night, but I guess I thought if I could nail down a taxi, at least I could be of some use and still fulfill some of my responsibilities as Dad. 

So, I looked for the taxi signs. 

There weren’t any.

Next, I looked for cars that denoted themselves as taxis.

There weren’t any.

Finally, I asked Bryce for directions as to where the taxis normally parked.

There weren’t any.

When Bryce nonchalantly started weaving his way through the milling throng, I discovered my mistake, and like a good Dad ought to do, I hitched up my bags and followed along obediently after.  For the rest of our stay, I followed after, and it was the best thing I could have ever done.  I learned more about India that way, and a lot more about being a Dad.

We approached a sort of meeting place, although the casual eye would have never picked it out as such and were immediately accosted by no less than 5 would be taxi drivers, all clamoring for our business.  I think I mentioned in the last post on India that the motel was 7 miles, but I looked back in my notes and saw it was 7 kilometers.  Bryce had come to the airport from the motel on taxi, in the same size vehicle as the ones bartering for our business, for approximately $.84.  The fellow who wanted to give us a lift was asking in the $25 range. 

And he wasn’t bashful about it either, because he saw all these white faces and how weary they looked and all the bags.

But.  He didn’t know that Bryce knew Hindi. 

And.  He didn’t know Bryce knew a bit about taxi fares. 

It’s true that $.84 was on the cheap side for that area, but the guy taking Bryce to the airport knew that is where the big fish were, maybe even whitefish if he was lucky, so he was willing to go at a loss one way. 

But $25 (2000 rupee) was decidedly too much.

“No,” Bryce said, “You are way too high.  I’ll pay you 1000 rupee, and even that is way too high.”  (Around $12)

“Oh no sir, your bags are very heavy, and we will need to take a bigger car.  2000 rupee.”

“No, if you can’t do any better than that, I’ll go find another man who wants to do it for me.”

“2000 rupee, sir, 2000 rupee.”

“Okay, see you then,” and Bryce started walking off.  I was incredulous.  It was getting on to 3 now in the morning and here we at least had a ride.  If the rest were just as high, I figured we should take this and be on our way.  I was tired.

But it was a ploy. 

“Wait, how much you pay?”  And Bryce sauntered on . . . “Sir . . . “

“1000 rupee, and even that is way too high.”  (Still sauntering on and not looking back even as he spoke his offer.)

“Okay, come on then.”  (He had been gruff and a bit growly during the exchange, but as soon as the deal was made, our driver turned into peaches and cream.

For a bit.

As soon as we had started moving, he abruptly changed demeanor.  “Wait, (slowing) you tell me 2 kilometers.  This is 7!  1500 rupee” 

And I know Bryce had told him 7, I had heard it myself and was rising up in defense.

Bryce was getting torqued off, and it was getting later.  In the end he told him to get going and do it for 1200.  The guy sort of had us over the barrel at that point because we weren’t at the airport anymore.

The amazing thing was, he didn’t know how to get to the motel address Bryce gave him and ended up asking Bryce to put it on his phone so he could follow along on Bryce’s gps.  Finally, Bryce even had to tell him were to turn on top of all that. 

And then the final cusp was when, after he finished unloading a couple of our bags, (we had unloaded the rest) he asked for a ‘gift.’ 

I wasn’t sure if Bryce was going to explode or not.

The motel proved excellent; although as we walked in, through the ever-present metal detector that no one paid any attention to even though it beeped on everyone that went through, I got my first glimpse of what smog really is. 

For, as we walked down the hall to our room, and said hall being no more than 75 feet long, I noticed the lights at the far end had a very blurry and hazy look to them.  I asked Bryce what the deal was with them. 

“Smog,” he said. 

I still marvel at it today.  It was so hazy everywhere because of all the fires and vehicles that this soon became normal in my mind, but I could realize then, why Bryce often complained of throat irritation over there. 

Lessons from the Body Shop Man

I was fairly glum sitting there in the body shop, waiting for the owner to show up.

I had just bashed in the back of my truck, otherwise detailed in the post ‘Five Finger Discount.’

Now, I had a bashed in truck and I was way behind on my schedule on top of it all.

My eyes hardly took anything in as they roamed over the dusty waiting room, but they eventually rested on a plaque that stated the owner had been in business for over 20 years.

And that plaque looked to be close to 40 years old.

I was a desperate man in desperate circumstances.  As the saying goes, “Beggars can’t be Choosers.” 

When the owner walked in, I spoke up without any preamble whatsoever to a man I didn’t know from Adam.

“So John, it says you’ve been in business here for over 20 years.  I’ve a question for you.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Have you ever burned out?”

“Yep, sure did.  It’s been well over 20 years ago I did.  Had to find some answers and find ‘em fast.”

“What’d you come up with for answers.”

“Came up with 3 of them.”

“Do you mind sharing them with me?”

“Not at all. 

The first is, ‘You don’t need that work.’”

“What?”

“Yeah.  You are a typical man.  You do exactly what every other typical man does when the phone rings and there is work on the other end of the line.  First, the macho/ego part of you seizes what you think is a good opportunity; you don’t want to lose it or lose any image that you hold of yourself.  So, even though you are currently, say, 3 weeks booked out, and the job is a two day job, you tell the potentially, soon to be disappointed customer on the other end, ‘I think we can work it in by the end of this week,’ if you are at the first of the week, or, if at the end of the week, ‘I think we can get to it by the first of next week.’

And you say all that, having no idea how you are going to work it in, but you are already juggling customers in your mind to make way for this one, even though you promised those customers you would be there this week also.

You have a scheduling bankruptcy on your hands at this point.”

“Okay,” I said, “You are right so far about how I’ve scheduled my work.”

“I know I am. I’ve been there.  That’s why you have to get really stern with yourself when the phone rings and say, ‘You don’t need that work.’

What you are going to need to do, once you leave here, is go home and personally contact every customer that you have hanging and tell them you aren’t going to get to them anytime soon.  Clear the slate; start over.”

I took his advice.  The way I remember, I had 9 customers that I had no plan, really, of getting to their job. 

It was a bitter task.

The second–

“Now,” he said, “take this approach whenever someone calls and wants your business to help them.  Don’t even tell them when you can get to it while you are on the phone with them.  You will waffle every time; and you’ll always short yourself on time.  So, tell them you need to get to your schedule, and you will call them back within an hour to let them when you can get to their job.

Look at your schedule in cold blood.  When you have decided, realistically, when you can get to them, add another several days to that and call them back with the date.”

“But hold on,” I said, “we might be talking 3 months in some cases.  Anybody knows you’ll lose that business if you ask them to wait that long.”

“No you won’t,” he said, looking at me steadily through 20 years of experience. 

“No, you won’t,” he repeated. 

“Go one farther and tell them that you have their name on the date you can get to them, and that if it seems too long, then they should find someone else.  Tell them you will call them a week before that date to see if they have found someone else.

Ninety-eight percent of the time, they will still be waiting for you, and you better be ready to snap on their job just like you said you would, maybe even sooner.

The two percent that didn’t wait on you, aren’t customers you want anyway.  They hire who they can when they can and will treat you the same. 

And . . . here’s something else.  Let’s say it was a $5,000 job you had scheduled for that date. When you call them a week before they tell you they have found someone else, you can count on it, within a day or two, another $5,000 job will call and will fit into that time slot of the one you lost.  It almost always happens.”

“But . . .” I stammered.

“And the third—”

He looked at me, with that firm gaze of his, and said, “God made our bodies to work 8 to 10, maybe 12 hours a day.  It’s okay to work beyond that when the situation demands it, but if you are consistently working more than ten hours a day, you are exceeding what your body/family can handle and you’ll have the same problems at home that you have with your customer base.”

I pondered it all, and realized that probably God had put this man in my way for a reason.  I thanked him for his helpful words, left my truck there, and got on my way home.

I was about 5 miles away from his shop when I thought of it.  I just about turned around to go tell him what I was thinking, but I didn’t.

Several weeks later, when I went back to pick up my truck, I told him, “John, I was 5 miles away from here last time when I thought of something I wanted to tell you.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about you and wondering how it’s been going.”  (This said despite the fact that we were complete strangers when we met last visit.)  “What did you want to tell me?”

“You’ve never been poor.  If you had been, you wouldn’t have said some of what you said last visit.” 

“Yes, I’ve been poor.”  And really, no further words were needed.

*****

I’ve used his advice for close to 15 years now, and it holds true; every letter of it.

India #5

I smelled it when we were still several thousand feet up in the air.  It was a medley of hundreds of thousands of outdoor cooking fires, garbage pit fires, warm, humid vegetation just then cooling down from the heat of the day, and pungent incense smoke laced here and there throughout.

I’m guessing I may have even caught my first whiff of Chicken Tikka Masala and Aloo Chili up there, although I doubt I recognized it at that point.

In a word, India.

We taxied up to the gate, and I wondered how this was going to be, getting through a foreign airport, customs, and finally baggage claim.  I had been told New Delhi airport could be a bit confusing. 

But I happened upon a bit of wisdom there on the other side of the world, at one in the morning, their time.  Although that wisdom seemed a bit incongruous, my gut feeling was to go with it.

Just follow the turbans, that bit of wisdom said.

And so I did, much to the dismay of my good wife and sweet daughter.  And not only did I follow them, I started sprinting, just like they were, in an effort to be the first at the top of the line.  My female counterparts weren’t so adventuresome, but I got them to keep up just the same.

Somehow, we hit the expedited customs line, and I looked across the way to see many many turbans looking over at me in a not too kindly way. 

Customs wasn’t a problem, other than the guy wanted to know if the sweet daughter was married, and she couldn’t seem to understand him.  Then her fingerprint didn’t read on the fingerprint machine.  (I think it was because her hands were too clammy or else, I’m suspicious the nice Indian customs man quickly adjusted the sensitivity when he saw a pretty white girl like her coming through.  My fingerprint read just fine.)  But we eventually got it to read, me holding her fingers down harder and the customs agent helpfully showing by touching her fingers also, how to hold them down. 

On to baggage claim.  By now it had been an hour since we had deplaned, but no luggage.  We were standing by the claim that stated our flight number, but I saw lots of turbans by another claim.  I went over there, and viola!, there were a few of our bags, one with the handle completely ripped out and gone.  And finally, all of us, turbans included, found our way back to the original claim to get the last of our bags.

It was there at that claim that my phone rang.  I glanced at the number and wondered why on earth my hedge manager would be calling me at 2 in the morning.  But then it hit me, markets were just closing at home, and he probably needed a decision on something, so I took the call.  When I told him, at the end of the call, that I was talking to him from India, he completely spaced out.  I think we pulled the hedge, if I remember right.

I called Bryce as soon as I had service while taxiing in to tell him we were on the ground.  He had flown into New Delhi and reserved a motel for us all to finish the night out before we flew on to Bagdogra the next afternoon.  He finally answered my call and sounded a wee bit perturbed I had awakened him.  He told me later he had been out like a rock.  I wondered what he thought, being perturbed like that.  Did he expect us to spend the night in the airport whilst he slept in his comfy bed? He said his motel was 7 miles or so from the airport, and that he would soon be on his way; I began to fret that we would have to wait on him. I needn’t have worried; he was the one waiting on us.

We made contact with Bryce again by phone once our bags were collected and he said to look for him by some big pillars.  He said he was as close in as they would let him, but we would still have to walk a distance, and he said to hang on tight to our bags. 

We found the main exit, and were embraced by the throngs of people, all speaking that which I could not understand.  I couldn’t believe the amount of people there.  Hundreds and hundreds, all at two in the morning.  I began to see quite soon that not all were family coming to meet family or friends, but that at least a third of them had other business, and that business in a none too subtle way, was to make money by carrying our bags for us.  Hence the warning from Bryce.  My good wife thinks I got a little too bold and used my elbows a little too freely during that time, but I dunno.  It was either that or we get separated from our bags, each other, or who knows what.  That’s okay, though, heroes don’t always get credit for their heroic deeds, just like I didn’t that night.

It was about then that I had a moment.

We were standing by a large pillar, and there was no sign of Bryce.  A realization began to ooze into my consciousness that, really, I had no proof whatsoever that Bryce was in India.  Sure, I had seen him in his house with other white people, and sure, I had seen some of the countryside roads he traveled.  But, having never been to India myself, and having no clue what it looked like in real life, I realized that it could easily be that Bryce, should he have wanted to, could have played a supreme joke on us.  He could be in Africa or Kazakhstan right now, for all I know, I thought.

And, adding to that moment was something else.  We have traveled some, moderately, I would say.  Airports and their lingo aren’t so strange, be it here in the U.S. or in Europe.  But this airport had no lingo once we left the main exit.  I saw a chain link fence off to one side, but no signs around it, even though people were pressing against it.  Other than that, just people and people, and lots of commotion, smoke, and noise. 

I think Bryce made us go to those pillars for a reason.  I haven’t asked him, but I think it was so he could hide behind the one he was by to spy on us for a while; take in the panic-stricken countenance of his Dad, and the let’s-go-find-him-right-now-even-if-we-have-to-tear-this-whole-place-down look on his Mom’s face. 

It still irks me my good wife saw him first, but that’s okay and probably how it should be.  I heard her shout, “There he is!”, and looked in the direction she was looking.

And there.  Out of the sea of people walked one whom I knew and loved dearly.  He slowly sauntered towards us, lithe and trim, taller, it seemed, than a year ago, and very self-possessed in that milling crowd of humanity.

I stood back a bit and gulped down something that kept clawing at the back of my throat.  I was pretty sure it wasn’t that food that had argued so vociferously earlier on the plane, but whatever it was, was making quite a ruckus of itself as I saw Bryce’s mother fall into his capable arms and then next his sister.  

And then it was my turn. 

It’s amazing what family can do for you at 2 a.m. in the morning in a hot, humid country almost 8,000 miles from home.  Really, I didn’t want to do anything else right then; the journey was over, but I was starting to feel a little tired.

And I hadn’t had a taste of India taxi drivers yet, which everyone needs to have.