Month: November 2010

Hardhead in the Boat

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Mr. Sweeney worked with my dad at the Post Office, but I couldn’t tell you what he did there.  All I knew was that he had invited my brothers and me to go fishing with him on Saturday.  On a real boat!  When you’re 8 or 9 years old and get invited to do that, you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven.  Oh, the anticipation!  The days of that long week before the fishing excursion just dragged by.  Could it only be Wednesday today?  I know it must be Friday already.  Will this week never end? 

But Saturday finally arrived and we were up well before dawn.  The trip across town to Mr. Sweeney’s house was quick, and we loaded our little Zebco rods and reels into the trunk and headed over to the Arroyo Colorado, some 35 or 40 miles away.  This waterway, which in some places follows the ancient riverbed of the Rio Grande and joins the Gulf of Mexico a few more miles to the east, is a deep, saltwater channel.  It contained an amazing array of fish species, from flounder, to trout, to redfish, and even a few lesser known species thrown in.  I know…I caught a couple of the lesser known ones myself.  The 7 pound sheepshead fish I caught that day is one of the strangest I have had on a hook in my limited fishing experience.  And, up to that time, it was also the largest fish I had caught.  Never mind that it had teeth in it’s mouth fully as big as mine. But, I’m getting ahead of myself…

We pulled into Rio Hondo (in English, the town’s name means “Deep River”) about daybreak and stopped by Mr. Sweeney’s parent’s home.  They had a house on the Arroyo and therefore also had a dock for his boat to be tied up at.  After quick introductions, we were out on the water in the wonderful boat.  I’m guessing it was just a normal bass-boat, but that day, it was a ship for us!  We had never been on the water before, having had to be content with sitting on the bank of rivers and channels to fish.  What a memorable event!  And what fishing!  We caught trout, my oldest brother caught a flounder and almost reeled in one of the strange sheepsheads before the monster bit through his line with those atrocious teeth.  A few moments later, I was able to get mine in the boat!

Throughout the day, however, we kept catching a breed of catfish which Mr. Sweeney referred to as a “hardhead”.  That was actually the name of the species, but he used it in a pejorative manner.  “Oh, those old hardheads,” he would sneer through his gritted teeth.  “Throw him back in.”  It didn’t make sense to us.  We knew catfish were good to eat.  We always tried to catch them when fishing on our own.  So, when I caught a particularly nice one, probably about two pounds, I waited until our benefactor was helping one of my brothers with an equipment problem and sneaked the catfish onto the stringer to take home.  I was to regret this action very soon.

Toward mid-afternoon, we decided we had had enough fishing and headed back for the house.  When we pulled up to the dock, the elder Mr. Sweeney took our stringer and started pulling the fish off to dress and fillet them.  I thought nothing of it, until all of the sudden, he let out a yell and had his fingers to his mouth in a second, sucking on the bleeding puncture wound in one of them.  Turns out, the hardhead has a particularly bad habit of spiking his attackers with his long, sharp dorsal fin.  Not only that, but the species has a mild poison which makes the wound redden and swell up.  It’s not anything close to fatal, but is very painful.  He looked at us boys with an accusatory stare and demanded, “Which one of you put that worthless old hardhead on there?”  Well, I had to face the music, which was thankfully not severe for his part, just a very terse comment about doing what you’re told to do.  I have to admit, I berated myself a whole lot more internally than he did aloud.  I knew what I had done was stupid.  It was also selfish and even a little dishonest.  Actually, to this day, I feel bad about hurting that kind old man, now long dead.  As I’ve said here before, some stupid actions stay with us a lifetime.  I guess, you could say that the catfish wasn’t the only “hard head” in the boat that day!

Why is it that we can’t be content to accept that some things need to be done differently than we think best?  When we’ve got the expert in the boat with us, doesn’t it make sense to follow his lead?  My first time out on the boat, and I thought I had the savvy to know better than a life-long fisherman what fish would be good to keep.  I sincerely wish that this were the only time I made a stupid decision in the same way, but that certainly isn’t the case.  I am a lifelong slow learner, needing to find out the hard way about most of life’s pitfalls.  I’m pretty sure that it’s only by the grace of God, that I wasn’t maimed or killed as a child, with some of the stupid stunts I pulled.  The “hard head” description still fits today.

Thank God, that His patience with us outlasts our foolishness!  He keeps taking us out in His boat, instructing us, knowing that we’ll be disobedient and selfish, but regardless, He keeps teaching and encouraging.  Even at my age, I’m cognizant of my need for His patience day after day, through mistake after senseless mistake.  I’m hoping that one day, I’ll look up and realize that I’ve finally learned my last hard lesson, but I’m pretty sure that’s the day I’ll be in heaven.  I guess in a way, that’s what we mean when we say, “Live and Learn”!

“You’re born, you die, and in between, you make a lot of mistakes.“
(Anonymous)

Cash is Not a Collectible

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“First of all, Mr. Phillips, let me make clear that I am not authorized to sell you anything… Blah… Blah… Blah… so before we wrap up, do you think you’d be interested in investing in silver and gold mining today?”  I informed the young person on the phone that all the money I had to invest was wrapped up in my business, but thanks for the invitation, goodbye.  It wasn’t quite the whole truth, but by and large, I have presumed for many years, that it was in my (and my family’s) best interest that the music store not go belly up, so yes, we’ve sacrificed here and there to keep it solvent.  Consequently, there’s not much of a financial portfolio to boast about.

I’m not complaining, mind you.  Once in awhile a wide-eyed kid will wander in, gaze at all the instruments scattered around, and say earnestly, “Wow! You must be rich!”  Well, of course, I am rich, but not in the way their naive intellect understands.  I figured out long ago that I was in the wrong line of work if I was expecting cash to flow like water into my bank account.  Make no mistake, we’ve been blessed.  We’ve never missed a meal (being too busy to eat doesn’t count), never had a car repossessed, never had to face bankruptcy, so we have much to be thankful for.  But, by the distorted standard of this super-wealthy society in which we live, I’ve never had “money”.  Hence, it’s fortuitous that I haven’t developed the same expectations, so I actually can be rich in spite of my disregard for that standard.

On numerous occasions over the years, folks have made the assumption that my goal in business is to achieve wealth.  In my conversation with them, I always come back to a metaphor I’m sure I appropriated from someone else early in life.  I believe firmly that money is nothing more or less than a tool, an implement for us to utilize in achieving our goals.  The complete lunacy of making the goal simply acquiring money  should be obvious, but for many it is not.  If you’re a carpenter, you only need one hammer for the job you’re doing.   True, there are different hammers for various tasks, tack hammers, framing hammers, ball pein hammers,  sledge hammers, etc., and the tradesman would make sure that he had one good quality hammer for each task, but not more than that.  No carpenter I know has a house full of hammers.  I have known some tool-collectors who had a room full of tools, but they can’t use them.  Ask that collector if you can borrow his antique claw-hammer to pull some bent nails and see if his room full of tools is of any use for your task. 

Why do we honor the wealthy, the tool-collectors in our culture?  The tools they hold onto so tightly could achieve unfathomable good if freed to work as they were intended.  To be clear, I am not a socialist, not even an egalitarian.  I abhor government-coerced equity in goods and wealth, but I love it when those who have previously held tightly to their tools open their hearts and hands and let the tools work as they were intended.  It doesn’t happen often enough, but what a joy to see the miser become the benefactor.  It evidently is a difficult and painful transition, so not many make the journey, but it does occur.

So, no huge nest-egg, no fat stock portfolio, not even a mattress full of cash.  How then, could  I possibly consider myself rich?  Jesus told us that where we keep our treasure, that’s where our heart will be.  My true wealth lies in my faith, my family and friends, and in my mission.  Are you seeking true security?   You won’t find it in the alarms and steel walls of the bank’s coffers, but the grace of God through Jesus is certified, fail-proof security.  And, how can any man be poor who has a loving family and caring friends, with all the benefits and responsibilities that accompany them?  And, if my mission is to love God completely, and love others as I do myself, I’m fairly sure that I will never lack for opportunities to fulfill that mission.

The days are teeming with the wealth of His gifts and my cup is full to overflowing.  No hoarding hammers allowed!

“The rod of Moses became the rod of God! 
And with the rod of God, strike the rocks and the waters will come. 
Yes, with the rod of God, to part the waters of a sea; 
And, with the rod of God, you will strike Pharaoh dead. 
With the rod of God, you will set My people free. 

And so what do you hold in your hands this day? 
To what or to whom are you bound? 
Are you willing to give it to God right now, right now? 
Give it up, let it go, throw it down, down, throw it down.”

(from “Moses” by Ken Medema ~ Christian vocalist and songwriter)

The Face Rings A Bell

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

It doesn’t happen every time I look at that clock, but once in awhile, as it chimes the hour or half hour, I’m taken back almost twenty years to the day we acquired it.  I remember parts of that trip to Dallas well.  It was late July and our old brown Toyota didn’t have a working air conditioner.  Talk about a pressure cooker!

Everyone in the family was glad that it was one of those days when we were in and out of the car continuously, since out of the car meant in an air conditioned building, most of them pawn shops.  Back then, we made it a practice in the summertime to go to a big city or two and purchase as many reasonably priced band instruments as possible for repair and resale.  A successful band season at the start of school meant the difference between losing money for the year and showing a profit.  Although the kids got tired of the process long before we quit for the day, they had their own things that they were searching for; she needed a new pair of inline skates (you remember them) and he was hoping for a new game for the Nintendo console (yeah, old school man!). We might find any of the items we were seeking in the abundance of hock shops in the great metropolis of Dallas.

The pawn shops were in a seedy part of town, with bars and even strip clubs nearby, but we paid them no attention.  We were pretty sure that no one would mistake us for persons of means.  The old flivver helped and we certainly didn’t draw any attention to ourselves, with our WalMart clothes and lack of bling.  Going on our merry way, we picked up the old antique kitchen clock at one of the stops for a very reasonable price.  It didn’t run, but we were sure we knew someone who could remedy that, so the money changed hands.  Just up the street, was a convenience store.  The car needed gas and we needed something cool to drink, so we stopped.

Those two needs taken care of, we started out of the parking lot, only to see a woman walking around the corner.  All it took was a glance to note the bleached hair, heavy make-up, skin tight clothes, and surgery enhanced body parts.  The distinctive wiggle in the walk completed the story and left no doubt as to the advertisement.  My Lovely Lady and I exchanged glances, probably raised the eyebrows a bit, but uttered not a word.  I’m sure we both thought, “Perhaps they couldn’t see that from the back seat and we won’t have any embarrassing questions.”  And so it seemed to be, since no questions were forthcoming, nor was any mention of the spectacle made.  We breathed easier, thinking that we had made a clean getaway.

Oh, the foolish delusions of parents!  We had completed our business in Dallas, spent the night in a motel, and  were on the road home the next day, when the little girl in the back seat, out of the blue, piped up with her question,  “Why was that lady dressed like that?”   Never mind that 24 hours had passed.  Neither one of us had to stop to think.  We knew instantly to whom she was referring.  Of course, we gave her the appropriate amount of information for the age she was, but we still laugh about the incident almost 20 years later.

Do kids notice things that happen on the periphery of their world?  You betcha!  All the time!  My kids bring up events today which I was certain they weren’t aware of at the time, or thought, without doubt that they had forgotten.  It seems that no event was safe from observation and many of these memories, our kids will carry with them all of their lives.  I know I have vivid memories from my childhood, fifty years ago, that I’m sure my parents wish I would have never seen and especially not remembered.  All of this is to say, the old adage, “Be careful little eyes, what you see,” is not idle talk.  They see what you see, but we need to help them to understand right and wrong, good and bad.  It makes a lot more sense for us to talk with them about what we see together, about occurrences we share.  If we don’t, it’s a pretty sure bet that they’ll talk with someone else about it, usually someone their age with incorrect and incomplete information.

One of the other memorable (for me) happenings from the aforementioned venture occurred outside the same shop in which we purchased the old clock.  A fellow approached me as I placed the clock in the trunk, offering to sell me some food stamps at well below face value.  I declined, knowing that there were only two reasons to sell items which were mediums of exchange, such as food stamps, the first of which was that they were stolen, a distinct possibility, or the second reason, which was that they couldn’t be used to purchase the goods or services which the gentlemen wished to acquire.   A quick look around at the bars and dives gave a pretty good indication of his motivation.  After declining his offer, I suggested that his family might make good use of the food stamps.  “Those are for poor folks!  We don’t use them!” came his injured reply.  My sincere hope is that his children don’t have hunger to add to the list of vivid memories which they have carried all of their lives.  The memory for me is that the clock now sits on a sideboard in our dining room, a constant reminder to be sure to nourish both my family’s physical and spiritual needs.
 
Paul the Apostle  encouraged us to “Redeem the time, because the days are evil.”  Let’s make the most of the timely opportunities we are granted daily by a gracious Creator!

“Carpe Diem!” 
(Seize the Day!)

Cleanup in Aisle Three!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Have you done anything stupid recently?  Yeah, me too…‘This cocoa isn’t hot!  I’ll have to heat it up again.”  The words were spoken with a little disgust, but also with confidence.  I have become a believer in modern appliances and the microwave oven is one of the most revolutionary advances in helping lazy men that I am aware of.   For instance, this time I knew that placing the mug back in the microwave for a minute would remedy the problem.   Lukewarm cocoa?  No problem!  Well, maybe a small one.  You see, I had already placed those wonderful little marshmallows on the top and I didn’t bother to remove them for the reheating process.  Not a good decision….

Okay, not a disaster, not even close to a calamity, but still an annoyance, with most of the acrimony aimed at myself.  The Lovely Lady had even warned me, “Maybe not a great idea…”, but I thought that if it had been a really bad idea, she would have told me to stop, so the hint swooshed right over my head.  Wait!  Do you think I could blame this mess on her?  Was it, in fact, her fault and not mine at all?

No, I had only myself to blame.  I tend to do that, though.  You know, just blunder through life.  Good advice abounds, but my 50-some year old brain still reacts with the two year old attitude, “I can do it myself!”  How is it possible that after all these years of living on this earth, I still don’t have the reasoning ability to perceive a good suggestion when I hear it?  I like to say that I have perseverance, but I think it’s actually just good old-fashioned stubbornness.  I even used to think that it was a family trait which was passed on to me from my father, but I see it in evidence everywhere I look.  Yeah, Dad is stubborn, but it’s a quality that most of us share.  It just demonstrates itself in different ways.

I watch my grandchildren, old enough to reason, but still young enough to think the world revolves around them, throw tantrums, simply because they’ve been asked to accomplish a task they’ve done numerous times before.  The frustration for me is that in their completely irrational actions, I see myself.  Oh, no screaming, no tears, not even any head-butting the back of the seat I’m sitting on, but I know beyond any shadow of doubt that I throw my tantrums too, just in a much more sophisticated manner.  I get what I want with manipulation, deliberation, and rationalization, but I get my way.  This, in spite of the knowledge I have that others around me have my best interest at heart.

You see, it’s in our nature to want to do things our way.  It has been so from the beginning of recorded history, commencing with the parents of the human race, and continuing down without interruption (except once) since then.  I’m just thankful that we have second, and third, and even fourth chances.  Our Father’s grace is inexhaustible, unlike our own as parents.  A friend passed on an encouraging message today which used the phrase “…guiltless be your heart.”  I know my heart and “guiltless” doesn’t describe it.  Thanks to God though, “forgiven” does.  My stubbornness and selfishness are covered.  The messes I’ve made have all been cleaned up.   Tomorrow will be a new day for me to experience His fresh blessings and renewed opportunities.  And, not only for me, but just as much for you too.

Let’s make a start together.  Oh, and though you’ll probably be tempted to try it yourself, the marshmallows in the microwave?  Probably not a great idea.  You know, what she said…

“Relying on God has to begin all over again every day, as if nothing had yet been done”
(C. S. Lewis)

Choked Up

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Too bad that guy can’t sing very well at all,”  came the lightly sarcastic comment from the Lovely Lady today as the CD version of David Phelps’ “Nessun Dorma” came to an end.  Setting the table with my back to her, I couldn’t make a reply, since I was afraid that I would embarrass myself by crying as I spoke.  I’ve always been like that.  Music evokes emotion that I don’t know is inside me.  I can watch a horribly sad scene in a movie without the slightest hint of discomfort, but add a couple of violins and I have to surreptitiously wipe the tears away, when I think no one is watching.  I hear Chris Rice’s “Untitled Hymn” on the car radio and have to pull over to avoid causing an accident. 

The scene was repeated this evening, as I sat at the computer, checking my emails for the day.  A friend had sent a link to a video of a recent incident at the Philadelphia Macy’s store.  The event was described as a “Random Act Of Culture” (click on the link to watch it yourself).  As the huge Wanamaker pipe organ roared out, 650 individuals from the Opera Company of Philadelphia and a number of other organizations gathered in the central atrium and broke into the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s “Messiah”.  The Lovely Lady heard the music and asked me why I was listening to that particular song (it’s not Christmas yet, you know) and again, I couldn’t answer for fear of my voice cracking.  

What is it about music that makes an ordinarily almost-sane man weep like a child?  How is it that random notes, which were arranged together and coupled with words and written on a page two hundred fifty years ago, can have the power today to move huge groups of people to spontaneous demonstrations of exultation, when performed by talented musicians?  I will freely admit that, after a lifetime of making music and being around musicians, I still have no idea what causes this phenomenon.  And, I’m not sure that I want to know.

I understand a fair amount about chord construction, key signatures, and rhythm.  We call this theory, and maybe there’s a reason it’s called that (beyond the obvious).  A quick check of Google sources will demonstrate that all the scientific  investigation up to the present has not been able to find any answer as to why we are moved emotionally when we hear different types of music.  I can’t speak categorically, but my suspicion is that they won’t ever be able to answer that question.  There are just some things that can’t be contained in a formula, can’t actually be held in your hand, but they just are.

Most of the time I spend at my untidy desk, I’m listening to music.  I’m moved by it, inspired by it, and sometimes, my work comes to a screeching halt as I am captivated by it.  While much of the beauty of life is visual;  Gorgeous, awe-inspiring mountain crags, or the white sands and roaring, roiling surf of the seashore, or the majesty of sprawling, verdant forests, I am delighted to know that we can travel in our spirits to a beautiful, enchanted place without ever leaving our drab, dingy workplaces.  We are moved by the timeless grace of one of God’s best gifts to mankind, the melodies and harmonies, both instrumental and vocal, that make up what we so simply call music.  Would that all art was so simple, yet so eloquent.

Oh, and if you tell the Lovely Lady that I get all choked up over music, I’ll deny it.  I’ve got to protect my macho image, you know.  She still thinks I’m the strong, silent type, and it might disappoint her to discover that I’m actually sensitive and artsy.  Let’s just keep this to ourselves, okay? 

“Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul.”
(Plato)

Shifting Gears

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“I think I may quit this truck driving thing and start doing a stand-up comic/piano player act.”  The gentleman, whom I would describe as a senior citizen (anyone over ten years older than I) spoke the words in all seriousness as we talked in the store today.  I thought the statement might be part of his act and said, “Well, we’ll have to raise the piano keyboard first, or it will be a sit-down comic act,” but he wasn’t joking.  Just in the last three months, he’s put 30,000 miles in for the trucking company he’s now quitting, and he’s tired of that gig.  He loves music and is quick with the jokes, so he thinks he’s got a chance.  I say more power to him.

I have nothing but admiration for people who are willing to make a new start, take a gamble, and do what they have always wanted to do.  My own father left the Navy at 30 years old, not because he wanted to, but with an honorable discharge for health reasons (there’s a story there I may tell someday).  He went to work for the Post Office, working his way up through the ranks, only to leave that job at age 45, having to take a disability retirement because of contaminants there which nearly killed him.  Many men would have been happy to draw their pensions, golfing and fishing their way through their declining years, but Dad saw an opportunity to do what he had always had a burning desire to do and took it.  He applied to his church leaders for ordination as a pastor and started preaching full time.  Thirty-five years later, at 80 years of age, he’s still preaching full-time and will, if he has his way, almost certainly continue until he dies.

Adaptability.  What a great gift to have in your life.  The capacity to turn on a dime, exchanging one set of skills for another and accomplishing a completely different mission than the one you started with.  I’m not sure that I’m gifted in that way.  I’ve never had to do such a U-turn.  Oh, sure, I’ve had to seek out alternative methods for accomplishing my tasks.  We all do that.  Plan A doesn’t work out so we move to Plan B.  That’s not the same thing.  I’m referring, not to a Y in the highway, but to a dead end, compelling one to find a completely disparate route through life.  I say I’m not sure I’m gifted in that way, but I’ve never really had to find out.  I’m hoping I never do.

I jokingly say, once in awhile, that I’m still not sure what I’m going to do when I grow up.  Some days, I’m really tempted to take a stab at the bum idea, but I like regular meals and the comfort of a bed too much to go after that.  In reality, I’m hoping that the Good Lord will just let me keep doing what I’m doing, making small adjustments to keep things fresh, until the time I can’t do it anymore.  No stand-up comedy for me (you’d only groan at my jokes).  I’m also pretty sure that I wouldn’t do very well as a pastor.  I like to preach, but somehow, I get the idea that pastors work on other days besides Sundays.  

“Circumstances are the rulers of the weak, they are but the instruments of the wise.”
(Samuel Lover 1797-1868 Irish Songwriter and novelist)

Staying focused

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Dear Mr. Phillips,”  the note began.  It wasn’t a solicitation from Publisher’s Clearinghouse, but a real note and that, coupled with the formal greeting, should have started the brain working.  But I took no notice of the “Mister” thing and went right on reading.  The young university student wanted to photograph me.  An assignment for a class, she said.  They needed “environmental photos” of people at work.  She was a music lover, so the music store seemed logical to her.  Maybe I could do a repair on her guitar while she shot pictures.

I love pictures, especially ones with me in them.  I know that’s more telling than anything else I’ve said before in these posts.  You’re probably thinking “narcissist”  and “arrogant” right about now, and you might be right. But, I bet most of you do it too, don’t you?  You see pictures of an event you attended and can’t avoid sweeping all the photos with a glance to see if your image is there.  Of course, you notice others you’re familiar with, but you want to see yourself too.  We love to remember events with ourselves participating in them.  I think that’s human nature, but I may be about to change my modus operandi with regards to photos.

The young lady was very nice, allowing me to work while snapping dozens of pictures.  Every once in awhile, she would ask me to look at the camera and “smile”, to make a change from my usual glaring demeanor, I suppose.  How does one “smile” at a camera without it being fake?  The only smiles I have ever thought natural in a photo were those taken candidly, while I was smiling at a funny statement, or even roaring at an even funnier joke.  I don’t “smile” at cameras, because the cardboard caricature which emerges from the little box never makes me happy enough to really smile later, either.

As she left, I wondered aloud if she would be so kind as to email me a few of the better pictures, after her project was behind her.  She assured me that she would and this evening, a couple of emails arrived with the photo files attached.  I’m sure that she did her best work, but I think the camera must have malfunctioned as she snapped the images.  The guy in all of the pictures looks at least 50 years old!  How is that possible?  I could understand, if she had an old man for a subject, but this is me!  Well, all right, I am over 50, but that’s no excuse for not doing better work.

Sometimes, an action or isolated event, disturbs our fantasies of life as we want it to be.  We’re suddenly disillusioned and face reality.  This isn’t one of those times.  The camera must have been malfunctioning.  That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.  The old guy in those photographs won’t exist for another ten years or so.  Well, not in my head anyway.  One of the things I believe to be true is that if you think you’re old, you’ll act old.  Maybe the inverse is also true:  Act old and you’ll think you’re old.  For some reason, unfathomable to me, the generation just older than mine, my parent’s contemporaries, wanted to be older.  They ran helter-skelter for old age like it was a badge of honor to be won.  No physical games, no biking, no skate boarding, no fun allowed.  Card games, golf, and book clubs for them.  If you could be solemn enough, staid enough, sedate enough, you could win the prize.  Respect would be yours, and everlasting renown. 

Not for me, thanks!  I want to ride on the skate-boards with the kids, bike down the hills (not so much up them), and keep moving.  I understand kids and their unwavering objective of doing new things, learning new concepts, and getting a little scraped up in the process.  At least in my brain, that’s who I still am, so the pictures, while possibly factually authoritative, do not reflect the real me.  I’m pretty sure that I’ll always be a kid inside and will always love the new toys, always be looking for new ways to do the old jobs, and hopefully, always be looking for new things to learn.  With that really old rocker, Rod Stewart, I’d like to be “Forever Young”!

“Everyone is the age of their heart.”
(Guatemalan proverb)

“Father Time is not always a hard parent, and, though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour.  With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow’s hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life. “
(Charles Dickens)

Cleanliness is next to impossible!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

We’re cleaning the music store so the cleaners can come tomorrow.  It’s a weekly event.  Oh, we also do the same thing at the house every other week, the night before they come to clean.  Does that seem pointless?

Let me transport you back 25 years to when we purchased our music store and moved it to a different location within a couple of weeks of taking over.  We picked up, packed up, bagged up clutter, and then did it all again several times and I said, “I’ll never let this store get like this while I’m running it.”  Thirteen years later, we moved again and we picked up, packed up, bagged up, and rented a dumpster.  (Filled it four times with junk we had accumulated.)  And, as we moved into our current location, I said, “I’ll never let this store get like this again while I’m running it.” 

Shift scenes to an old Victorian house in this same town.  We lived there for eighteen wonderful years, raising two children, any number of cats, and a dog or two.  When we got ready to move a few years ago,  some of our very good friends were kind enough to help us corral the clutter (they repented, too late) and together we picked up, packed up, and bagged up.  And I said, “We’ll never let our house…”  Well, you get the picture.

Now, I’ve admitted that I’m not the brightest color in the box, but as Mr Tolkien says with such clarity, “Even he can see through a brick wall in time (as they say in Bree).”  He was speaking of a character who “…thinks less than he talks, and slower,”  which seems to describe me to a tee, so maybe even I can learn, given enough chances. 

When we moved into the house, we hired a housekeeper who comes every two weeks to clean.  We do some light housecleaning in between and by we, I mean the Lovely Lady, since I can walk past the same piece of trash everyday for a week without noticing it.  And, every other Wednesday, we leave for work in the morning and as if by magic, come home to a sparkling clean abode! The thing about housekeepers though, is that they won’t tackle our clutter for fear that they might lose something important to us.  So every other Tuesday, as we arrive at the eve of their semi-weekly visit, we go though the house, sorting and throwing away, precleaning in preparation for their battle against our dirt.

A couple of years ago, we came to the conclusion that we could use a similar plan of attack for the music store, so we bought new shelves, sorted, threw out, and generally did the same thing we had each time we moved before, but this time with the purpose of staying put, only in cleaner quarters.  And now, like at home, each week we move errant returns off of counters, wind up guitar cords, and sort any stragglers that have escaped our paper filing efforts of the previous days. The transformation after the cleaners are done is not so mysterious here, since I’m usually sitting at my desk before they finish, but the result is no less stellar.

At last, we don’t have to be embarrassed, either by our home or the business.  Visitors to both are greeted with smiles and invited in without fear of distress.  Life is easier and less stressful than before.  And to top it off, we’ve developed a great friendship with the cleaners, a very nice couple with whom we share many common perspectives.  I frequently find it hard to allow them to do their work, since we love to spend time in conversation about many subjects, from music, to Bible doctrine, to our common love of auctions.

I do have one serious issue, though.  Their unreasonable refusal to deal with my clutter, and my own inertia, has left me with a location in the store which I think my mother would refer to as a pigsty.  I sit every day at a desk piled high with papers which may or may not have any logistical reason to be there. Come to think of it, many of them may even be simply trash.  I don’t know and really don’t have time or much of an inclination to find out.  So the stacks grow and each week, the cleaners work carefully around them, leaving the impression of cleanliness in our store, which flees as quickly as you look at the desk.  I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, not even sure that I want to correct the issue.  I guess sometimes, the pig just needs to have a little bit of mud to wallow in, even if the rest of the barn is spotless.  Can you understand that?  I just need a place to settle into, grunt once in awhile, and merely feel at home. 

I am sorely tempted to turn this into a moral tale, reminding the reader of the spots of pity and self-centeredness that we love to reserve in our otherwise orderly lives, but I’ll let you fill in the blanks.  For myself, I’m content to wallow here, comfortably answering emails, posting pictures, and taking orders.  Life is good, or would be, if I didn’t have to finish picking up those boxes before morning. 

“Look, ask me what paper came to my desk last week and I couldn’t tell you.”
(Ronald Reagan, President of the United States 1981-1989)

On working while impaired…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been under the weather the last few days.  Hmmm, did you ever wonder where that phrase came from?  Under the weather was how they used to describe a British seaman who was ill and thus had to be kept in his quarters below decks away from the wind and waves.  No longer out in the weather, he was safe below decks “under the weather”.  Of course, by that description, I don’t qualify, since I just keep coming to work.

I don’t know where the illness came from, since I’m in contact with hundreds of people in a week’s time, but I’d love to be able to blame this on someone.  The throat hurts, my voice is incapable of speaking much above a whisper, and the headache lingers on and on.  Massive doses of Vitamin C, and this Airborne quackery haven’t helped, but a trip to the doctor isn’t even under consideration, since the virus will undoubtedly just play out in a day or two anyway.  So I’ll do what all men do.  We act tough when strangers are around, and then whine and mope when our wives are here to get all the sympathy they will impart.  If my mom were around, the theatrics would be even grander, but I’ll finagle all the consolation I can get from the Lovely Lady and then tough it out from there.

I wouldn’t want you to be misinformed about the mode in which I carry out my work, either.  I am doing the bare minimum, completing only the most necessary of tasks.  Anyone I work with will attest to my petulant attitude, speaking only when absolutely essential, and emitting the moans and groans of a martyr when asked to do more than I deem crucial with my minimally functioning abilities.  I’m pretty sure my sister, who handles our shipping, was much happier than usual to leave at noon today when her duties were completed.  And, I’m not absolutely certain that I haven’t really offended one of my regular patrons, who merely wanted to talk with me about the functionality of an amplifier, only to be short-circuited by my brusque manner.  I may have to issue an apology in a day or two.  Not yet, though.  I still have a sneaking suspicion that I was within my rights as an impaired individual and the conversation might not go well. 

If you have been one of the injured parties, give me a day or two and then you may lay into me.  I’ll be appropriately contrite, I’m sure.  Until you notice an improvement in my vocal abilities, though, you might want to defer the confrontation.  I’m still relatively steadfast in my conclusion that I am totally within bounds and might further impede the process of making amends.

Come to think of it, it might have showed more insight had I heeded the Lovely Lady’s advice and stayed at home instead of working.  Ah well, at least I didn’t interrupt my normal routine.  Hopefully, everything else can be put right eventually…

“Duirt me leat go raibh me breoite”  Irish phrase meaning, “I told you I was ill”
(Inscription on comedian Spike Milligan’s headstone in England)

25 years and still trying to get it right…

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment
Twenty-five years?  How is that possible?  Today marks exactly that many years since the Lovely Lady and I purchased the family business from her dad.  We had been married seven years by that time and had two very young children and a mortgage on a recently purchased house, but we jumped into the music business without thinking twice.  Well maybe twice, but not much more than that. I thought that this momentous day might be a good time to mention an interesting experience or two along the way. (And, knowing me, maybe a sermon point or two to be drawn from them.) 
We learned early that self-employment wasn’t going to be a bed of roses.  The first complete year was filled with pitfalls, including the first and only time I’ve been accused of being a crook by a customer.  I didn’t handle it well.  We also learned about the rights (or lack thereof) involved with leasing property.  Rain damaged music and instruments led to a showdown with the building’s owner.  Of course, the cure, a new roof installed during the rainiest time of the year, proved to be worse than the disease, with two inches of water coming into the building when a downpour arrived with the roof unfinished.
But we got past the first year or two in decent condition only to realize that the government also wanted to have its share of our take.  One April brought us to the week before the fifteenth to discover that we were $2500 short on the amount needed to satisfy our obligation to Uncle Sam.  Two things stand out about that week.  The first is a young boy, who lived in our house, coming downstairs after bedtime one night with fourteen dollars and a few cents in his hand.  He had opened his piggy bank and taken out every penny he possessed and was offering it to help.  Yep…I cried then and I still get choked up when I talk about it.  The same week, my dad reminded me that Jesus told His disciples to go fishing when they had taxes that needed to be paid.  In thinking what that meant, I decided since the disciples were fishermen by trade, that meant that I should just do my job.  What a shock!  At the end of the week, the entire amount was in the account to pay the taxes!  When we do what we’re supposed to do, God does His part!
August, 1997…After several years of grudgingly paying lease payments, we noticed an ideally situated building that was for sale.  Quick negotiations led to a contract, but we needed a couple months for remodeling before an October 31st deadline for moving.  As you might anticipate, a long delay in approval and closing gave us scarcely four weeks for the job.  With the help of many friends and a few really dedicated relatives (who worked until 2:00 a.m. many mornings), the job was completed for the move to our own building by the deadline.  Were we apprehensive about the move?  You bet!  We had obligated ourselves to almost double the monthly payments with no visible way to meet them, but our business grew an incredible amount immediately after the move and we’ve never even come close to missing a payment.  Oh, and we got a great house right next door in the deal, so presently, I have only to walk down the sidewalk to be at work any time day or night.  (And, I do mean any time day or night!)
So many stories, so little space…You’ll just have to keep coming back here for those, a little at a time.  There have been many great opportunities, and more than a few mistakes, but I’m anxious to get to the next 25 years.  Who knows what the future holds?  I love what I do.  Period.  There’s no “but” or “if only” to add to that.  It’s a blessing that not many men can count as theirs.  I’ve known many people who daily go grudgingly to their jobs, counting down the years, months, and days until retirement.   God has given me the perfect job, one that I still love after 25 years.  I only hope the customers can put up with me for a few more, while I figure out how to be a success at it.
Oh, and one more thing…I have prided myself in being a student of human nature, but I’ve been fooled more times than I would have thought possible over the years.  I’ve trusted people who were lying barefaced to me and have been suspicious of others who were more trustworthy than I myself have been.  I’ve discussed the concept here before that we can’t look on outward appearances, but I’ve been shamed more times than I care to admit by my naivete in doing just that.  The thing that has amazed me the most is that people are far more honest than we expect in this suspicious age in which we live.  On several occasions, customers have returned to tell me that I undercharged them or that they had inadvertently put a guitar pick in their pocket without paying.  I even had one man return after more than15 years to apologize for his deceit and make it right.  Yes, there have been plenty who were dishonest, but the good experiences far outweigh the bad.

Twenty five years is a long time to do one thing, but what a great ride!  Good days and bad ones, they’ve all gone into making some wonderful memories.  And, as great as it is to get to the silver anniversary, we’re thinking we might wait to really celebrate until the golden one. Hope you’re still around to celebrate with us!

“The highest reward that God gives us for good work is the ability to do better”
(Elbert Hubbard, American editor and writer, 1856-1915)