“I’d like to get three accompaniment tracks, please.  The last time, you sent me those new compact discs, though.  I need cassette tapes.”  The voice speaking to me on the telephone was obviously that of a mature woman, probably in her sixties.  I patiently explained to her that cassettes were no longer available, so she would need to buy the CDs and transfer them to cassette if that’s all she could use.  In spite of the fact that prerecorded cassettes have been unavailable for at least three years, we still get requests like this frequently.

Over the last few years, approaching my senior years myself, I have contemplated this phenomenon any number of times.  The lady described above is a Baby Boomer, as am I.  We were the hip generation, the in crowd!  We were never going to be like our parents, those old geezers.  As groovy chicks and dudes, there was no way we were going to be caught dead over thirty, in square threads, investing our dough in the Man’s system, and handing out downer lingo like, “We’ve never done it like that,” or “When I was your age…”. 

Now admittedly, not all of us in the Boomer generation were hippies, spouting the “make love, not war” mantra, and putting flowers in the barrels of the soldiers guns.  The great majority of us were more conformist than otherwise, but the universal thought was that we would be “forever young”. Even now, I can hear the whining voice of Bob Dylan, along with the cheesy vibrato of the Hammond B3, as he invokes the blessing of the epoch, “May you stay Forever Young…”  When did we get to be old like our parents, stuck in the past, drawing imaginary lines in the sand over which we will not cross?  It happens to each generation in its turn, it would seem.

I readily admit to a love of nostalgia.  A friend today sent me the text of a radio story about a museum for eight-track tapes.  I was immediately eighteen again, tooling along in my brand new Chevy Nova, with the stereo I had installed myself.  Radio? Pah!  We listened to what we wanted to, on our extremely portable and wonderfully ill-conceived eight-tracks.  I realize “wonderful” and “ill-conceived” seem to be paradoxical, but that’s how I view the technology, in retrospect.  These tapes were a hodge-podge of genius and idiocy, held together by a generous dash of creativity.  The genius was the idea to use a movable head to read the information on the tape, its downfall the inability to keep the head in alignment, often resulting in double tracking (two songs playing at once).  It was genius to use a continuous tape, but idiocy to loop it in a circle that frequently tightened up on itself, making the music drag as if you had slowed a forty-five rpm record to thirty-three rpm.  Oops, sorry! Another reference to an obsolete technology.  Anyway, let’s just say the idea of the eight-track was brilliant in its concept, but  impractical in its application.  We bought them by the thousands.

There are innumerable other obsolete gadgets which have come and gone in my lifetime.  The same could be said of my parent’s lifespan and of their parent’s era.  For some reason though, we form attachments to the familiar, the once useful accessories, and we don’t want to let them go when they are replaced by superior technology.  Our parents did the same thing, as did our grandparents before them.

I’ve said it here before; I want to keep learning as long as I live.  That doesn’t mean that I won’t turn my nose up at a few non-essential inventions; right now, the e-book comes to mind, although I may embrace that idea one day.  But, I want to keep an open mind and a lively imagination that grasps new ideas and exciting developments for as long as I’m able to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.  All of my life has been played out in an exciting era of innovation and discovery, with no period more so than right now.   What a shame it would be to miss out on it, just because I decided to get old.

I do still have a small collection of 8-track tapes squirreled away just in case they ever get popular again.  You never know…Hey! bell-bottoms and tie-dyed shirts came back…

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.”
(Ecclesiastes 1:9)

“I could not, at any age, be content to take my place in a corner by the fireside and simply look on.”
(Eleanor Roosevelt~former First Lady and social advocate)

The beautiful drum set has been sitting in the same place for three months.  It’s a wonderful convergence of maple wood, metal hoops and mounts, and synthetic materials, as well as some sturdy stands for the copper alloy creations we call cymbals.  All these divergent components meet in cooperation to make a unit worthy of the name “percussion”.  But, it has sat in the same place for ninety days or more.  The price has been set at a very reasonable percentage of the market price suggested by the blue book, so we’re not likely to lower that.  Three months, though!  The drum set languishes, with many admirers, but no takers.

Until this week.  The folks came by late one night as we worked, long after business hours.  They stood outside the window, gazing and talking, moving to a different vantage point, and talking some more.  Finally, the man knocked on the window.  “How much?”  I told him the price and he said, “Thank you,” and drove away.  Just like all the others.  Only, this time it was different.  He came back the next day, backing his pickup truck up to the front door.  He paid the price.  He loaded the set.  And left.  We cheered.  The drum set was finally sold and we were done with it.  Well, not quite.

Two hours after the set was loaded into the truck out front, a Hispanic family came in the front door.  He spoke no English, so the dad and I struggled to communicate.  “La bateria no esta aqui?” (“Is the drum set gone?)  I answered that it was sold and he continued.  “Pero, yo tengo el dinero ahora.” (“But, I have the money now.”)  He said this as he touched his wallet.  I apologized again, then he and his family left the store, disappointed, but promising to come again.

If I thought I was done with the drum set, I was mistaken.  That very afternoon, another family came in the front door, turning to look at the bare spot where the set had been.  “Oh no!  You sold it?  Will you have another one?”  I wanted to say, “Not on your life!”, but thought better of it.  As we promised to keep our eyes out for a similar set, they left, telling us they would check back.

Three months that drum set sat there for sale.  We dusted it, shoved around the individual drums to make space for equipment moving in and out, and listened to kids beat noisily on the heads and cymbals as their parents shopped.  No one wanted it until, on that one day, three different families decided they need it.  How is that possible?

I took a guitar in trade yesterday and hung it on the wall behind the counter.  It was admired by every guitar player who walked in for the almost two days it was there.  This afternoon, a young customer asked me to hold it until he could talk with his parents about drawing down his savings account to purchase it.  I promised to hold it until closing, a mere 60 minutes away.  One hour.  No problem!  But again, the young man wasn’t even out of the parking lot and another fellow came in asking to play the guitar.  “I think it’s sold.  I promised to hold it until closing today,” I told him, but he insisted on trying it out anyway.  Within minutes, he was positive.  “I really want this guitar!”  I reiterated my intent to keep my word to the other young man, so he made me promise to let him know if the deal fell through.

Why is it that we want what we can’t have?  What is there about being told something is not available that makes us desire it more?  I’ve heard it all my life…“The grass is always greener”…  When I was a kid, my dad went through a period of time when he wouldn’t let us eat pork.  He said that God must have had a reason for telling the Israelites to abstain from it, so we didn’t eat pork products for quite some time.  All of the sudden, ham became my favorite meat.  I craved it; couldn’t stand watching other people eating it; even snuck it onto my plate at church dinners.  As I ate dinner out tonight with the Lovely Lady, I noticed that the dish I had ordered had ham wrapped around chicken.  I suddenly realized that I wasn’t all that big a fan of ham.  I can have it any time I want it, but I really don’t care that much about it.  Go figure!  Now beef…that’s a different story!  My low cholesterol diet (at which I’m not doing really well) doesn’t allow much “red meat”, so beef is off the menu most days.  I really want to eat steak, hamburgers, tacos…anything with beef in it right now. 

Forbidden fruit.  Adam and Eve struggled with it, thousands of years ago.  King David killed a man for it.  Wars are fought for it; feuds endure for generations over it; marriages are destroyed because of it.  I’m looking for the day when I can be free from the temptation and paralysis caused by it.  It looks like that’s a battle I’ll fight all my life.  I’ll keep letting you know how that’s going for me, if you’ll let me know how you’re doing, as well.

I guess I’ll start looking for another drum set tomorrow.  And I hope I can have a hamburger for lunch then, too… 

“No, it has gone beyond our reach. Of that at least let us be glad. We can no longer be tempted to use the Ring.”(J.R.R. Tolkien~”The Two Towers”)

“The Grass Is Always Greener Over The Septic Tank”
(Erma Bombeck~American humorist and columnist)

We were engaged. That meant something, right?  I was the most important man in her life, the one she could count on to be her rock, her strength.  So, why was she pushing past me to find her father with tears in her eyes?  I was disappointed and confused.  Here I was, her knight in shining armor, standing with arms outspread and she’s going to cry in her daddy’s arms?  If ever I thought I understand females, that illusion was quickly being stripped away.  The blow to my ego was severe, but fortunately short lived.  I soon discovered the problem, but still I felt let down.

The Lovely Young Lady was a senior in High School and had given a friend a ride home after school.  Her friend lived out away from town and they had to traverse a rough country road in the process.  You have to experience a dirt road in Arkansas to understand the issue, but let’s just say that it wasn’t a smooth trip.  Rocks grow in these hills, seemingly sprouting from the soil to poke their blooming heads up wherever they happen to find a crack.  The rock she had impacted with the oil pan on her car was unyielding, while the metal of the pan was a bit more tractable, so the trip back to town could have been mapped by the oil trail, first on the gravel road, then on the pavement.  Needless to say, she was more than a little flustered and emotionally distraught by the time she arrived at the music store where we were.  So, she did what came naturally to any teenage girl; she headed to her father for comfort and reassurance.  Right past me, the love of her life.

I’ve had a few years to contemplate my feelings that afternoon so long ago.  If I consider it rationally, I can’t for the life of me understand why I was upset.  Who in their right mind, would actually want to have to console a young lady, offering sympathy while deflecting the self-recrimination and “if onlys”.  Better to stand at a distance and wait until the situation improves, enjoying the sunshine without the storm.  Having said that, I don’t believe for a moment that I would feel any different if the same situation presented itself tomorrow.  When you love someone, you want to be there for them, whether to celebrate or to comfort.  In complete honesty, I will also tell you that I have never experienced that disappointment again.  We’ve cried together and laughed together, including others in the process, but never again supplanting each other.  

Later, I did get to share a part in making that particular situation better, along with the Lovely Young Lady’s brother.  Now, that stage of the reparations, I would have gladly let someone else take care of.  I’ve admitted that I’m no mechanic, but replacing the oil pan on that little Chevy was a trial of a different sort.  Love makes you do some unpleasant things…And I guess I’m okay with that, too.

Isn’t is strange, that we willingly and purposefully seek that kind of relationship?  Marriages, children, friendships, even the responsibility of having pets puts us in the line of fire, guaranteeing that we will participate in the heartache and pain.  I can list any number of these situations in which I have been mired, and I wouldn’t give up any of them.  Our children grew to maturity with us sharing the triumphs and the defeats.  We laughed and sang our way down the road, stopping periodically to cry and comfort.  While those relationships have changed drastically as their lives take different paths, we remain close, still sharing in the hard times, as well as the good ones.

When we write the stories and wax poetic, we love to tell of the happy, the ideal.  But, fairy tales aren’t reality; in this life there’s no “happily ever after.”  The plain truth is that we need the hard times to keep us close in the good times.  Pain and pleasure are all part of our lives and we want and need to share them with the ones we love.

Illogical?  Undoubtedly!  But there’s no better feeling than knowing that someone you love needs you to be there for them.  It kind of gives you the warm fuzzies to know that they are there for you too…

“Trouble shared is troubled halved.”
(Lee Iacocca~American businessman)



“Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”
(Robert Burns~Scottish poet and lyricist) 

“Anonymous” left a comment about last night’s musings.  “A Sunday afternoon nap punctuates a morning of Worship, a good meal and the woes of the week past.”  Now, I don’t usually do follow-up posts, but I can’t pass up this propitious opportunity.  First of all, I’m always happy when readers leave a little of themselves on my pages; otherwise, how would I know if I’m on the right track at all?  While I don’t depend on the comments for my sense of well-being, it never hurts to get a feel for what the recipients of my ramblings take from them, as well as giving me a sense of who you are.  But, in reality, my brain was jolted into activity by the wonderful comment above.  I have no idea who the author is and I’d kind of like to keep it that way.  I can imagine some wise person perusing my daily nonsense, finally finding a post worth commenting on and making an intellectual statement which may one day be in all the lists of quotes by famous writers, motivational speakers, and anonymous sources.  Not likely, but a guy can dream, can’t he? 

I  read the comment aloud to the Lovely Lady, finding that hearing the words brought a completely different perspective to the statement.  What roused me was the use of one word in the sentence.  The verb in the sentence brought me to a screeching halt.  Yep, just like a period.  “…punctuates…”  The nerd in me was all atingle instantly.  The picture drawn by the sentence was vivid.  Yes!  They get it!  The Sunday nap is the period on what is past.  A full Stop.  No more.  And, just like that, I wanted to believe that it was true.  The hard week, the busy days, the weariness, all were banished with the period of the nap.  This far and no further.  Gandalf the wizard was on the bridge in Moria standing against the evil Balrog.  “You shall not pass!” 

But, just as quickly as it appeared, the vision dissolved into nothing.  That’s not right, I thought.  There’s no disconnection from one day to the next.  There’s no full stop and restart.  Perhaps, the punctuation  Anonymous meant was a comma.  I like commas, simply because they give me a chance to catch my breath.  A very brief rest and we’re on to the next phrase.  Yes, maybe the comma.  But as I considered it some more, I don’t think that fits either.  The comma doesn’t give any sense of renewal, but simply separates parts of the same idea.  Just a pause, and a continuation of the same old, same old.  Not much refreshment in that.  No, not the comma.

We could keep going.  We haven’t talked about the exclamation point!  Excitement! Surprise!  Shock!  They’re all rolled up into one little straight line with a period below.  Nope, not quite the description of a nap.  At least, not a good nap.  How about the question mark?  Why?  How?  When?  It still misses the target by a good bit.  I scratched my head for a moment more, and then I had it.

I think the Sunday nap, or a nap on any other day for that matter, is best described as a semicolon; the little mark, part period and part comma (it includes both in its form) which gives a chance to place two sentences next to each other.  The sentences continue from the first into the other, both aiding each other, but able to stand alone if need be.  I’m exhausted from the events of this week; the semicolon allows me to be refreshed for the new one to come.  It’s not a full stop, not a momentary pause, but a chance to regenerate, to be ready to go forward.  This must be what Anonymous meant!

As I start to think outside the lines a bit, I’ve come to realize that this thing we call time is a bit arbitrary.  We make the day start and stop at midnight, but the moments keep marching past, oblivious to our false milestones.  Time pays no attention to weekends, nor to Mondays; only we humans are foolish enough to mark those anniversaries.  What is true is that our past leads continuously to our future; the lessons of yesterday become the practices of tomorrow.  The times of refreshment we crave and even require, simply give us a chance to regroup and move on through the days that are appointed to us.

Even having acknowledged the foolishness of our shortsightedness, living from work week to work week, I’m grateful for the rest on the way.  I will happily admit that the nap isn’t the only thing which accomplishes this.  I love the fellowship of friends and family, the joy of music, and even reading; all these and more bring about revival and rejuvenation.  May we  enjoy these times throughout our lives, with the real goal in sight, the goal of serving our Maker daily.  Every new moment is an opportunity for service and being agents of change in the world; every encounter is a chance to show God at work in us.

The sentences are long; the semicolons between them are short and blessed.  They’re not intended to stop the action, just to get us ready for what’s next.  As the Bard so aptly uttered centuries ago, “What’s past is prologue.”  

 I’m not sure if Mr. Shakespeare also wrote the old ad copy for Lee Nails, but it speaks to us too.  “Press On!”

“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:31)

“Sometimes you get a glimpse of a semicolon coming, a few lines further on, and it is like climbing a steep path through woods and seeing a wooden bench just at a bend in the road ahead, a place where you can expect to sit for a moment, catching your breath.”
(Lewis Thomas~American physician, poet, and etymologist)

Of all the legacies my parents gave me, I think I enjoy the Sunday nap the best.  When I was a kid, however, it was the longest hour of the week.   Every Sunday, we would head for Sunday School and church, coming back home to our Sunday dinner of roast beef and vegetables.  I never realized until much later in life that the reason the menu never varied was that it was a meal which could be left in the oven before leaving for church, arriving back home to a prepared dish.  We didn’t have a long wait before eating, but after the cleanup came the dreaded nap.

One hour of enforced quiet time, lying down, hopefully sleeping, but at least resting.  For a young boy, full of energy and imagination, it was torture.  There were places to go and things to do!  I didn’t have time to waste!  Something might happen while we were asleep and I’d miss it!  But onto our beds all of us went, there to lie quietly until the prescribed hour was completed.  As with the menu for Sunday’s dinner, this nap was also something I didn’t understand until I matured a good bit, but now I realize that this time was for my mom and dad, not for us.  They were exhausted.  Five long work days for Dad and a continuous around-the-clock job of taking care of five children for Mom.  How could they not be tired?  Sunday morning wasn’t very restful either.  Getting all the kids presentable for church, checking ties and shoes, making sure that there were no toys concealed in pockets or up sleeves, looking under fingernails and behind ears for stray dirt missed in the Saturday night shower, and combing the unruly hair.  Then at church, teaching Sunday School, singing in the choir, ushering, chasing errant children, and finally back home, knowing all would be repeated later that evening.  Ah! But, nap time was coming.  The kids would lie down in their beds, quiet at least while the parents had a well-deserved, if abbreviated snooze.

I can so identify with that!  The weeks are long and fatiguing, with not enough rest and more than enough stress.  Sunday morning is still busy and Sunday dinner more so.  The Lovely Lady is a good bit more ambitious than my mom was, so the table is always filled, both with diners around it and with food on it.  I don’t sit around and watch ball games while it’s being prepared either,  Today, I set the table (with help) for nine adults and four children and it bent beneath the load of food which the Lovely Lady prepared (also with a little help)…No not roast beef today. although that’s a favorite which is served frequently, but the ham was wonderful, along with salad, veggies, and bread, with a few extras squeezed in there (and I do mean squeezed in, if you get my drift).  Afterward, the oldest grandson helped me serve coffee as the homemade apple pie was served with ice cream. 

Ah! But nap time was coming (is there an echo in here?).  When the company headed home and the cleanup was finished, I settled into my comfortable recliner, the Lovely Lady in her corner on the couch, and I slept the sleep of the weary.  I don’t even know if she slept today, but a couple of hours later, I know I awoke refreshed, ready to face a new week.  Now that I’ve had my restorative timeout, I can take whatever the natives throw at me in the days to come.  Bring on your worst, your toughest!  I’m ready!  It’s amazing that the nap not only helps physically, but the mental aspect is improved as well.

I’ve told you about the attributes my parents shared with me, the high cholesterol and the breathing problems from Dad, the ability to “argue with a fencepost” from Mom.  I’ve shared about the good gifts too, but this Sunday nap habit, I will be eternally grateful for.  What a great way to cap off the Day of Rest.  I’m thinking God is pleased with this, too.  If you don’t agree, maybe you could just keep your opinion to yourself.  I like this tradition and hope I can pass it on just like my parents did. 

“I usually take a two hour nap, from one to four.”
(Yogi Berra~Professional baseball player and manager)

“Think what a better world it would be if we all-the whole world-had cookies and milk about three o’clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankies for a nap.”
(Robert Fulghum~American author and speaker)

The first time I drove a car, I experienced what could only be described as sensory overload.  I couldn’t have explained it.  The scenery simply shifted from passive to active in my perception.  I have yelled “Shotgun!” as many times as anyone in my life, so the front seat was not new territory to me.  There was no change in what I actually saw.  No, the alteration was in the import of the information reaching my eyes and ears.  As I began to drive, I suddenly realized that every single article in my field of vision (and some not in it) was in play.  Each item, whether another car, a trash can, a mail box, a pedestrian, or ditch, or bird (the list goes on and on) had the potential to impact what I was doing (and yes, the pun was intended.)   The instantaneous realization was that all those things which had just been part of the backdrop, now were the active cast in the stage of driving.  It’s odd; driving wasn’t that much different than riding a bicycle, at which I was an old pro.  You’re moving down the same street, with the same objects, but somehow, the sobering realization that serious damage could result from one split-second choice changed the perspective exponentially.

Driving for the first time is not the only time I’ve experienced this feeling in my lifetime.  It happens to a lesser extent every time I’m thrown into a new, unfamiliar situation.  A new town, a new job, a new marriage, all of these changes have made me keenly aware that I’m no longer directing the show; there are other actors in the play of life, all of them with the capacity to affect me.  The overused catchphrase for this is, “out of my comfort zone.”  I’ve meditated on this a bit and think a more appropriate phrase might be, “out of my control”.  We love to live in a place where things happen at the appointed time and in the prescribed manner.  We don’t want to worry about a chance encounter or an overturned time schedule.  The ordered, neat little world we have arranged for ourselves is just fine, thank you!

It’s sad to realize that even when I’m used to a situation, if I get out of it completely for a period of time and then jump back in, the same thing happens again. This may be one reason that I don’t like taking a long vacation.  The reentry is like sliding under the wheel in the car for the first time all over again.  Oh, the break-in time is a lot shorter, but for those first few minutes, I sincerely wish I had just kept my nose to the grindstone without the break.

I’ve had to live “out of my comfort zone” a lot the last few weeks, but this week, it just might be described as completely out of control.  I don’t like it.  The little corner of the world in which I exist seems to be moving at me too fast and I’m afraid that I may do some lasting damage (or be damaged myself). Most of us have watched a child riding a merry-go-round on the playground and can identify with them, at least symbolically.  For the first slow rotations, it’s all smiles and happy squeals, but as the speed increases and the queasiness in the stomach rises correspondingly, we wait for the shout of “Stop the merry-go-round!  I want off!”  I’ve thought about yelling it a time or two myself this week.

I will admit the OCD part of me would be fine with that.  It’s easy to actually make the image of objects (real or imagined) coming at me worse than it really is.  If I dwell on the thought, the potential for disaster is overwhelming, with every person I interact with being a plausible candidate for catastrophe.  But, every once in awhile, I have to tell myself the same thing my drill-sergeant fitness-guru sister-in-law yells repeatedly at her victims, er…classes.  It works for me, temporarily at least.  “BREATHE!”

It turns out that I’m not the only one with problems in the world, not the only one just figuring out that he’s not in control.  I’m happy to say that I haven’t totaled any cars or people this week, and I’m not getting off the merry-go-round anytime soon.  But, if you see me leaning over, taking deep breaths, just give me a minute.

I’ll be back in the driver’s seat making good time pretty soon….

“We’re so busy watching out for what’s just ahead of us that we don’t take time to enjoy where we are.”

(Bill Watterson~Creator of the Calvin & Hobbes comics)

“It is a dangerous business going out of your front door.”

(J.R.R. Tolkien~English novelist~1892-1973)

“Close the deal!  Don’t take no for an answer!  If they didn’t want what you’re selling, they wouldn’t let you in the door.”  I sat and listened to Bob Q trying to teach me his selling techniques and determined that I was going to sell those Kirby vacuum cleaners if it killed me.  When I answered the newspaper ad for a position with his company, Mr. Q promised me huge paydays if I would follow his instructions, so I hung onto every word.  The other trainee and I practiced on each other, perfecting our skills, answering objections with ease and impressing ourselves beyond our wildest expectations.  We were ready!

I have a fair assortment of memories in my head of which I am not proud.  Some, you will never read about here, others will come to light as I can face the chagrin they evoke, mostly from myself.  My stint as a vacuum cleaner salesman is one of those depressing recollections I would rather leave buried in the past.  In some ways, however, it informs who I am today, so I’ll drag it out of the storage bin and air it out for a little while this evening, if you will indulge me.

I have asserted many times that I am not a salesman, even though I’ve spent my entire adult career (with a few short detours) in sales.  I approach sales a bit differently than the training I had with the vacuum cleaner concern.  I would rather suggest to a customer that he or she come back later to buy a product than to force the sale today.  I have actually talked customers out of purchases because I believed that they had no need of the product they were considering.  Bob Q would not be proud at all.

I actually sold one Kirby vacuum cleaner during my stint as a rep for that company.  Okay, to be truthful, Bob sold it, but I’m getting ahead of myself.  When we were ready to start selling, we made “cold calls”, finding names and numbers in the phone book and calling people out of the blue to set up demonstrations.  I set up my first call and made my way to the home one afternoon.  The lady of the house listened patiently to my pitch, allowing me to run her vacuum and then mine to show how much more it picked up.  The photos of ruined carpet were shown, advantages touted, warranties explained, payment plans offered, and then the door was closed behind me.  No sale! 

To say that Bob was unhappy with me would be an understatement.  He was livid!  “Don’t you know she wanted to buy that vacuum?  She didn’t want to say no!  She wanted you to help her say yes!”  Then he gave me the fateful instructions, “Don’t you ever leave a prospect who says no without calling me first!”  I listened to him and determined to do better on the next call.  The opportunity came within a day or two.

The older man and woman were both on Social Security, living in a small frame house with peeling paint and a rickety front porch.  Their furniture was aging and threadbare and most of the flooring in the house was scarred-up hardwood, with just a faded area rug in the living room and a fraying runner down the hall.  As with my first presentation, these nice folks listened attentively to my spiel, watched my demonstration, and said no.  After talking with them for a few moments, I knew they didn’t need the vacuum (they had just two old rugs in the entire house!) and they certainly didn’t have the money to purchase this pricey model.  I wasn’t interested in trying to get them to buy any longer, but I had to call the office.  I couldn’t face Bob’s anger again.  With their permission, I called to let the man know that it wasn’t going to happen.  “Let me talk with them,” he demanded.  Twenty minutes later, I walked out of that house with a check in my hand.  When I got back to the sales office, we celebrated.  Well, Bob and the other trainee celebrated.  I was ashamed.  Those folks had no money and would be doing without things they needed because I had walked into their house.  Never mind that it was Bob’s persuasive personality and words that convinced them.  I had taken their money.

I did face Bob’s anger one last time, because I started looking for another job the next day.  When I was supposed to be out on sales calls, I went to employment offices.  A couple of days later Bob confronted me as I walked in the front door.  “What have you been doing this afternoon?”  “Looking for a real job!” I retorted.  He fired me on the spot.  It was the only job I was ever fired from and I was relieved beyond belief. 

I have thought of that couple many times in the thirty-four years since that day.  They have provided an incentive to honesty and integrity that no sermon ever could.  I’ve dissected the situation many times, to determine why I was so ashamed and I believe I know the answer.  You see, Bob Q’s world-view told him that he was the most important person in his circle of influence and he was acting on that creed.  Try as I might, I can’t get away from the principles I learned as a child and have had reinforced time and time again as an adult.  “You cannot serve God and money.”  (Bob Dylan said it clearly when he sang “Gotta Serve Somebody.”)  Many of the other precepts I learned as a child flood my thoughts as I write this: “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”  “Consider others better than yourselves.”  “Where your treasure is…”  The list goes on and on, all reminding me that I don’t come first.

I haven’t always been able to live with integrity.  As I said, I’ve got a lifetime of missteps and failures hidden away beyond your view.  That’s the depressing part.  The thing I celebrate is that each day is a chance to do better; each encounter an opportunity to redeem the evil times.  I’m enjoying God’s gift of more days and new opportunities to get it right.

But, don’t bring back that guitar you bought from me last week.  You wanted it or you wouldn’t have come into my store in the first place…

“A little integrity is more valuable than any career.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson~American poet and essayist~1803-1882)

“There are worse things in life than death.  Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?”
(Woody Allen~American actor and movie director)