End of an Era

Thirty-two years ago, probably sometime last month, I stepped into the local full-service filling station for my first day of work.

Yes, you read right. 

Full-Service Filling Station.

Thirty-two years ago, was a different era entirely.

We weren’t so very far removed from being able to dial the last four digits to reach someone local on the rotary dial telephone.

And, if you stood near enough to the phone, while it was still on the hook, and listened closely, you would hear a tink sound.  I say tink, because to me it sounded like a cross between a click and a ting. 

If a person was really careful, they could gently lift the receiver, holding the hang up button down until you had the receiver up by your ear, and then, just as gently let the hang up button up, and, viola!, you were listening in to the 4 or so others who were hooked in to your line. 

Of course, we all got savvy to that little click on the other end that told of someone picking up and we’d stop to say, “Did someone just pick up?”  Whereupon there was a guilty silence and then the hang up click could be heard.  On the other hand, that little trick was somewhat important, because when the line was busy, no one else could make a call until the two people having their long afternoon chat got finished, and, sometimes, if they heard that click enough times, it would urge them to hang up.

Cordless phones house phones, forget cordless phones in your pocket, hadn’t made an appearance yet.  If you made a call, you stayed anchored nearby the earpiece and base linked by a three-foot cord, unless, of course, you had extra funds and then you had a ten foot cord.  That cord served a good purpose.  It was the precursor to the fidget spinner long before its time.  You could sit there and unwind and wind back up the spiral for as long as the conversation carried.

You still saw the occasional two-banger tractor working away out in the fields.

Cabless tractors were common, and the odd cabless combine was still around.  The only way to pull a straight furrow was to have it in you to begin with.  All the rest of us suffered snide remarks about how much more crop we had in our fields because of the meandering rows.

Center pivots were a novelty that only the wealthy could afford.  Almost everyone had little tablets on our pickup dashes with numbers printed on them that we could circle when we walked rows to show which rows didn’t have water while the rest had water that had made it down to the bottom end of the field with the flood irrigation we used.

We didn’t know the technicalities of cancer; only knew it was bad.  We didn’t connect it to swimming in mucky, smelling like chemical tail water pits.

The railroad track through town was still new enough, straight enough, and smooth enough, that if you didn’t watch for when the train came through, it could be a real menace if you happened to be in the middle of the track.  Because the train ran fast back then.

And, that Santa Fe still pulled a legit caboose that did legit work.

If you were lucky, you still sighted the occasional Hoozhalicht, or rabbit light, a left-over phenomenon from the dust bowl years.

The only blinking lights were the occasional radio tower.  The twinkle down low that told of running irrigation was still some years away.

We told the weather by looking out southwest about eight miles and when the shed out there disappeared, we figured there was a good chance we’d get rain.

But I must stop, or I may be found guilty of George Santayana’s “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it too.”

So, let’s get back to the full-service filling station, owned by Evan, and named, Evan’s Tire and Oil, or, ET&O by those of us who worked there.

It was a place where you listened for the ding of the air gong which signaled that a car had rolled up for gas.  We attendants pumped the gas for them, checked their oil, washed their windshield, and, if they wished, checked their tire pressure.

It was a place where you got your windows cleaned and the interior of your car vacuumed when you had it serviced.

It was a place where we went to pick up red Lincoln town cars from beautiful, older, rich ladies for a hand wash.

And, in that car particularly, there were rows and rows of cassette tapes, never mind CD’s or downloadable mp3 files, with Vince Gill, Alan Jackson, or Patty Loveless to croon you company if you thought you could sneak it off.

We weren’t so concerned about safety there. 

Of course we were, but not to the extent we are today.  If we had been, we wouldn’t have worked under that air powered, no protection stops at all, vehicle lift that always twisted a bit clockwise when it got to the top.  Neither would we have dared each other to see how long beyond the top of that cylinder we held the control lever to see how much the car bounced at the top of its travel.

It was also a place where I first learned how to count change.  Because the first time I tried to, I realized I knew nothing whatsoever about it.

It was a place from which I came home in the evening with greasy hair from the particulates that the oil burner heater put into the air inside that building.

It was the place where I puked up the contents of my first McDonalds hamburger into the wash pit.  I guess one could call that an emergency pit stop.

It was also a place of serious conversation, and not so serious but something stopping just short of antagonistic conversation with the salty bookkeeper.

It was a workplace to an employee, (not me) who was deathly afraid of wasps and who ran at an all-time record to get away from such small insects.

It was witness to almost daily squirt bottle water fights and red rag snaps that left four-hour welts.

It was the place where I learned to tear down a truck tire using only a sledgehammer and tire irons, and, if normal procedures didn’t work to bead that tire back up, then a good whoop of ether squirted into the tire at the end of a lighted match would normally get the job done.

And now, after thirty-two years, I find myself the owner of that place.

And when I walked into it to look things over for the first time, I was sixteen years old right away.

Because nothing had changed. 

The oil burner still hung in the southwest corner.

The same cash register that I learned to count change on was still there.

The same mirror I looked back at myself from to see a rather pale face after that puking episode was still on the wall.

The same lift, the same shelves, the same bulk oil building outside.

The same tire racks, and even a few leftover innertubes still lay on the shelves.

The same behemoth forced air unit for the office, the same counter, less the candy in the glass fronted shelves.

Even the same sounds and the same smell.

Except, it couldn’t be used for us as it was originally.

So, we set about gutting it to repurpose it for a new use as an electrical inventory warehouse/office building.

All the shelves came down. 

The oil burner got tossed.  (it took a skid steer to man handle it)

Conduit was ripped from the walls and ceiling.

Lights and ceiling fans were discarded.

Paint is being removed in a slow process that peels back the layers of history, one oil-based coat at a time.

The two bathrooms are no more.

The cinder block wall at the back of the original office has gone to smash.

The mirror I looked in and sink I washed my hands in were spirited away to the trash bin.

The candy counter is gone; a different cabinet and flooring is waiting to be installed.

And I thought I was holding up pretty well, and staying fairly enthused with the vision of the new project.

Until I had the boys unbolt the arms and base from the lift.

And even then, it really didn’t get me.

Until I had that car lift loaded in the skid steer bucket, and I looked down. 

There, I saw the form of what seemed to be an innocent one who had done his duty, and now lay in quiet repose, its arms and legs sagging in slumber.

And, I almost got me a little tear in my eye.

Written in Patrick Dugan’s, while I shared a coffee with Mama J.

P.S. Towards the end of this month marks three years I have met with you here. 

I have enjoyed it.

The Joke’s on Me #2

I had an epiphany the other day.

And since I don’t get those so very often, I figured I’d better jump on this one before it got away.

These dogs around here really suffer.

At least someone thinks they do.

Last couple of years we’ve tried to make do with a too small window unit in a too big garden shed.

I’m not sure if it was better or worse in there for those dogs.

By summer’s end we practically had to drag them over there, kicking and screaming as it were.

I was doodling around in the garage, messing with wire spools and pieces of wood that I attempted to draw on.

It was the tail end of spring, and I realized this cool weather was soon going to go away for good when I flashed with the idea.

Why not get a window unit, sized correctly this time, for the garage. 

The dogs sleep in there at night, when it is cool enough, that is.

I looked over to my right, and saw the exact spot it would fit in.  Just above the counter and off to the side.  I was sure it wouldn’t take up too much space.

I consulted the big box store websites and when the straws were all down and one drawn, I got ready to make my way over to Sutherlands.

Before I did, though, I told the boys that the next day they should keep one of the trailers in the yard, so they had tools to put this unit in for me.

“What unit?” They asked.

“The one I’m going to get from Sutherlands.”

“What kind is it?”

“One that blows cold air.”

“Is it a window unit?”

“Why not?”

“No way.  You need to go with a split unit.”

“Hardly.  They cost 2,000 bucks.  This one is 700.”

“Doesn’t matter.  You need to go with a split unit.”

“No.  I need airflow, and those don’t have it like I want it.”

I saw the vote they took between themselves, even though they never said anything out loud, and I saw that it fell in favor of a split unit.

But, having made my mind up, and considering it was my money, I got myself on the way to Sutherlands at the next available opportunity.

Those guys were good to me and went about installing my window unit without too much grumbling. 

They did a really neat job too, which is fairly normal for them.

And I soon had myself sitting in front of ice-cold air.  So cold that I finally had to redirect the vents so not so much blew on me.

One day, it was cold enough outside that I tried out the heat function on it and toasted right up in minutes.

As the days grew warmer, I ran it more, and the dogs were delighted.  They even told me so, and I consoled myself that I had done the right thing by them, because they needed that extra air flow and all. 

That A/C, paired with a new fly spray dispenser made it possible for those dogs to spend all day out there in comparative comfort.  But they said they still planned on staying in the house most of the time, just to keep us company.

I heard a noise, one day, that I didn’t like to hear. 

It was the fan kicking up water; I knew what that meant.  The drain for all the condensation had plugged.

Except when I went to unplug the drain, there was no drain that I could see.

So, I crammed a screwdriver in the most likely place, a rubber grommet that let a little water drip out by the screwdriver.

But it wasn’t enough, and the fan continued to kick up water.

I looked through the louvers and saw a place I could drill a little hole to let all that water out.  There were two freon lines that lay right next to where I needed to drill that hole, but it looked like I’d be able to fit it in easily enough.

I fished an extension cord out the dog door that was nearby and plugged my Dremmel tool in.  I fitted an eighth inch bit to it and set up to make this happen.

My Dremmel danced around a little too much for my liking at the start, but once I had a small divot started, it went to work nicely for me.

I eased upwards on it and was already envisioning the steady trickle of water that would drain out once I drilled through.

And then my hand rocketed downward with amazing force.

And I was in near danger of frost bite; all the air around my hand had turned freezing cold while frost was manufactured right in the middle of that 90-degree summer afternoon.

I kept telling myself it was all about making memories, like I always tell the boys when I try to encourage them, but it blew in hollow and empty somehow.

In fact, just as hollow and empty as the freon lines seemed to be.

And, upon looking into that brand new unit a little farther, I saw there were no ports to charge it back up with freon, should I have decided to braze the eighth inch hole in that line.

It took a little while to crank up my courage to ask the boys to leave one of the trailers home the next day, and it seemed a bit awkward when they asked me why.

Especially because I knew, down to the roots of my hangnails, that I would have right next to 2,000 dollars in this project, figuring their labor and all.

I wonder if a split unit actually would have been the way to go on this deal.

PT Works

I first met him some seven years ago.

It wasn’t my choice to meet him. 

But I heard he had high reviews, and so I found his address and crutched my way in on my one good leg to his building.

Admittedly he had the moral advantage.

He was in strapping good health, fit, with a nice stack of extra muscle on his arms.

I was in strapping good health, maybe not quite as fit, and, if my muscle didn’t make itself quite as evident, then let’s just say it was lying low, only showing enough when necessary.

My disadvantage was my leg. 

It was terribly wobbly.  I couldn’t make it do what I wanted it to do no matter how much good energy I conjured up.

I accused him, before my acquaintance with him was more than five minutes old, that his treatment of me was just to get the advantage of me.

Because the first thing he did was make me pull the leg of my sweats up to show him my leg.

And, as I don’t normally go around showing leg, this wasn’t exactly in my comfort zone.

Particularly since the leg in question had great green bruises, yellow iodine stains and extremely white skin, speckled here and there with what seem glaring protrusions of any shape and color.

I told him my surgeon had made me take a vow not to overdo what I put that leg through.  I told him this, because he grabbed my leg like he was going to run with it.

He went on and on about how my surgeon was one of the best; how his surgeries always came through smooth as butter in the rehab process.

I began to get the drift that this guy also knew his stuff.  He wasn’t as rough as I thought he was at the start.  I saw that he never extended my leg past the parameters that the surgeon had told me not to.

I saw, even though he acted like my leg weighed no more than your average golf putter, that he never made quick movements, for which I was very thankful.

I told him I felt extremely vulnerable, sitting there, letting another man bandy around with my leg like he was, when I had no strength in it to kick or fight back with.

He said, yeah, he knew I felt vulnerable.  He could feel it in my muscles.

I wasn’t sure if he really could or if it was another way to manipulate me.

The next visit to him, I quickly tried to get past my vulnerability by asking him all about himself and his family. 

He was obliging, but after about so long, one sort of runs out of questions to ask on that subject.

On another visit (I had lots of them) I asked him if he was Democrat or Republican.  I saw him skitter just a bit on that subject, and he soon told me why.  He said he tried not to be too outspoken on that subject so as not to offend his clients.  Which seemed thoughtful to me.

I found out on another visit that he is a really good fisherman.  At least that is what he told me, but once I knew he was a fisherman, I went back in my mind to all the visits we had had previously, fact checking them, because, like they say, you never know about a fisherman.

He said he went to church, so I asked him if he could remember what the sermon was about.  He did pretty well in telling me what his impressions were.

We talked lawn mowers on another visit, and cattle on several others.  He said he wanted to buy in to our cattle feeding business; I told him to wait to see if the experiment worked out.  I’m glad I told him that, or else he would probably own part of my house today.

It got to the point where I prided myself in thinking that I was a friend of his.

Almost like I was the only one he talked to.

We soon discovered that my knee wasn’t bending all the way.  He said a normal knee bends 135 degrees when it is fully bent.  He said with the way my injury was and the attending surgery, he wanted to see 120 degrees if at all possible. 

But we stalled out at 90 some degrees. 

He didn’t think that was good enough.

He wondered if I had been doing my exercises at home. 

I told him, off and on, maybe more off.

He said he thought those last few degrees were hanging up on scar tissue and that once we broke through that tissue it would be smooth sailing from then on.

He didn’t tell me he was going to try to break through that scar tissue on the very next movement of my leg. 

Those muscles of his flexed and the next thing I was aware of was some blinding pain.  Out of reflex, I guess you might say, my previously hidden muscle slammed to life, and I saw my fist flash out and bury itself in his unsuspecting solar plexus. 

I still smile at him landing some three feet away, eyes bulged out, and hands holding his gut.  Maybe that was one time I had the moral advantage on him, yes?

*****

I have stepped into his office, off and on the last few years just to say hello, and I’m always met with his firm handshake, and a query of how I’m doing. 

He always makes me feel good, and I guess you could say that with a double meaning, because whenever I need a little therapy for my back, he makes that feel better too.

But I had a bit of a letdown the other day.  I was waiting for my appointment regarding my back, when a well-put together gentleman steps in and asks where Jeremy was.

They called him out from in back, and that’s when this gentleman said, “I just wanted to step in and say hi.” 

Whereupon I saw him get the same firm handshake and interest in his life. 

But I think I know better than to be letdown. 

There are some people, I have discovered, who are like him.  They have a genuine sense of interest and care about them that makes anyone they talk to feel better about themselves.

And me?  I’m glad I have the privilege of knowing one of them and where he does business. 

Because I plan on stepping in every now and then to say hi.

Sisters

I glanced up and saw them walking towards me.

A teacher, and her student.

They were walking slowly, gracefully, like women always do.

They were holding hands, and, I saw them draw closer together as they drew nearer.

I stood back a little, to give them space.

And in that instant, they were both the same age, united by the sadness of parting.

They hugged.

And the teacher came towards me, while her student stood, each of her hands holding a tuft of her skirt.

Each face etched with sorrow; each face softened by tears. 

And it was beautiful, and poetic somehow.

Used

I had my attention on picking out what I was looking for at the local Big R store.

I may not have noticed her if I hadn’t heard her labored breathing and smelled a whiff of stale smoke and sweat that followed her as she walked by me.

She was looking at Milwaukee power tools, I was looking at Dewalt.

 I heard her muttering “Which one . . . where is it?”

And then I heard her say, “This is the last time.”

That remark didn’t make sense, and, as she left the area I was in, I thought a bit on it but soon dismissed.

It wasn’t long and I was walking to the front of the store to check out.

I noticed she and I were walking side by side to the front of the store, and I also noticed she was empty handed.  I figured she hadn’t found what she needed.

But I noticed something else.  She kept looking at me in a nervous sort of way.  And the closer we got to the front of the store, the faster she walked.

I breezed right through the checkout line and was walking out the front door when I saw her again.

She was walking to a very old and tired looking Ford Bronco.  She kept looking at me in that same sort of way,

It was only as she stepped into the car waiting for her, that her hand bag opened a little, and I caught a flash of a red box within.

And then I knew. 

She had found what she was looking for after all.

And I knew she hadn’t checked out because I was the only one at the register.

I felt sorry for her, then.  Because then it made sense why she had said, “This is the last time.”

The man she had lifted for didn’t look like he sported very many gentlemanly traits, if any.

She gave me one more guilty look as they drove away.  I thought about snapping a pic of their license plate, but I knew that the odds would be against her rather than him.

Because she looked pretty much used up the way it was.

I think, according to a recent test I was required to take, there was a good chance that she was either being trafficked or at the very least was an abused woman. 

According to the info in that course, I didn’t have a chance to help her, because by the time I became aware of her plight, she was already with her perpetrator. 

But had I known back in the power tool aisle . . .

I wish I had.

Written in my truck while waiting for my lovely at Walmart

You

I see you, just a few years ago it seems, in a store that sold baby things.

You lingered the longest in the crib section, looking at this mattress and that.  You distressed yourself wondering if the mattress actually would be comfortable enough. 

And then it was the bumper pads you looked at next; you wanted pretty ones, but you wanted really soft ones too.

Later, we moved to what I thought was cheaply put together tinsel, and I complained within myself that maybe not all of this was necessary, that we could come back after the baby was born.

I see you that one evening in the local café. 

You were tired beyond description when I stepped in from my day’s work, and I suggested we should eat out to give you a break. 

You said yes instantly; you forgot to worry about our finances that evening.

I see you as your little one got hungry just when our food arrived and, I couldn’t help but notice that your food got cold and was uneaten while I leaned into my food.  When your baby was finished eating, I saw you eat your cold meal, and later as we left, I saw you grab a few more tidbits from my plate as you stacked everything neatly for the server to pick up later.

I see you in just a couple more years it seems, as your little family pitter pattered around the house and in the yard.  I see you stop your work to look at a picture your son drew for you.  I see you go outside to marvel at a rock collection. 

I see you, with tears brimming in your eyes, as you take one of your little ones to the back room to be disciplined.  You were always so kind to them when you disciplined them, and you never shouted at them or called them out in public.  Rather, you led them gently away to a quiet spot where you could speak to them without distraction.

I see you, laughing in a concerned sort of way, when your daughter showed up at the back door with her mouth chock full of dogfood.  You knew the only place she could have found it was in the dogs dish.  Later, when you used your finger to dig all of it out, you fished out a half chewed up bone, and I was so thankful you stopped what you were doing to help her.  Because what if that bone had gotten lodged in her throat? 

I see you, late one afternoon, tired and a little pushed out of shape because you had to start your washing machine again, for the second time that day, to run a load of muddy little boy jeans through. 

I see you, eyes brimming with tears again, as you walk your firstborn to his first day of school.  I thought it a little excessive when you stayed quite a while, in the empty school auditorium, after he had disappeared into his classroom.

In another three years, I see you take your youngest child into that same school for her first day of school.  Was she wearing a yellow dress?  I almost think so.  She always looked good in yellow.  And her two braids were so very neatly done.  I knew her hair wouldn’t come down by first recess like it always did when I tried to comb it when you couldn’t.  And you stayed there a little longer, after she had disappeared into her classroom, just like you did with your firstborn.

I see you, face torn with terror, as we raced towards school to fetch your second born from a skating accident.  I see you as you hold him and his bleeding face while we drive to the clinic to get him stitched up.  I see you, a few months later, walk with him to the back when that same son required extensive dental work to fix ongoing issues from that accident.  And again, some years later, when the panic of those first dental visits was too much to bear, you walked to the back again with him, even though he was easily old enough to go back there himself.  But somehow you knew he needed you back there, so you went there.

I see you, cheering your children on as they cross each milestone and finally graduate from school.  They each did well in school, and I am convinced that they did so because they knew you were completely supportive of them.

I see you, late at night, when I was too tired and had gone to bed, waiting up for your children to come home.  I knew a friendly, interested face would meet them when they walked into the house, even though they may have slipped past curfew a few minutes.  Because you saw their heart, and you knew their intent was to do right.

I see you, taking those same pains as you always did with your boys and their clothes, on their wedding morning.  (Because you knew half the time they forgot how to dress properly).  But I think more than their clothes, you wanted to touch them, and I know they wanted you to touch them on that most important day of their lives.

I see you, as your daughter leaves home to teach school in a place so far away.  I see you do your best to hide your sadness and loneliness as she leaves.  And you do quite well at hiding it, until we got in the car at the airport parking lot, and then I saw the quiet tears as they coursed down your face.

I see you, as you wait up late into the night, waiting for the phone call that you think will happen yet, from your daughter so far away.

I see you, in each meal you have ever made, and in the clean, tidy house you have kept for all of us.

I see you, as your face lights with joy when your nieces come over after church.  Each of their little ones is a grandchild to you, and I see how quiet and secure they become when you hold them in your arms, or read them a story.

I see you, as a mother, in pretty much every moment of the life we have shared together.

No Blurry Spots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none of this is really the point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I still had the blurry spots. 

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

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

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

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

It was amazing.  The blurry spots were gone.

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

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

The Poor

Psalms 41:1-4

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

“Why do you wonder?”

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

“Like what something else.”

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

“Sure, it is.”

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

“Not a bad idea, not in the least.”

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

“Yes, again not a bad idea.”

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

“Maybe.”

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

“No, we aren’t, are we.”

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

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

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

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

“Motive?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“WHAT?”

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

“Sure.”

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

“Probably.”

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

“Why.”

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

Deafening silence . . .

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

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

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

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

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

“And?”

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

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

“Oh.”

Midlife Crises

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

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

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

He also says it is largely psychological.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I set myself up for my first bite.

I simply couldn’t believe my first bite.

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

So, here came the ice cream this time.

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

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

And I heard very much laughter.

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

But here is the problem.

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

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

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

The Joke’s on Me

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

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

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

Sure, one or two had the collar coming apart.

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

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

Upon which I started looking for new short sleeve shirts.

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

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

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

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

Different body shape may have some to do with it.

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

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

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

I saw three immediately that I liked.

And they were the right brand.

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

The yellow shirt caught my eye first. 

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

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

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

Ah yes. 

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

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

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

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

Of course it was. 

Had to be. 

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

Now what.