Month: October 2011

It’s Only a Scratch…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“You realize this means that I’m going to have to sell all of my Johnson & Johnson stocks, don’t you?”  My supervisor looked at me seriously, but the twinkle in his eye belied his solemn tone.  “What do you mean?” I queried.  “Well, if you’re not working for us anymore, they’re won’t be making any profit on production of Band-Aids and the stock will go down the tubes,” he quipped, now beginning to chuckle.  It was my last week at the old job of working with the electrical contractor.  I chuckled right along with him, but I knew he was wrong.  The monster health-care products manufacturer was safe.  You see, as long as I have any jobs to do that involve manual dexterity and tools, I’ll be needing their services.  Frequently.

It was a long standing joke that the company’s shopping list always included a fresh supply of the little adhesive bandages while I was employed there.  I have told you before that I am a klutz, but when you add tools to the mix, there is every chance that blood will be involved.  Unless I burn myself first.  Soldering irons and hot-glue guns are also self-inflicted wounds waiting to happen in my hands.  My self-proclaimed mantra concerning the glue gun is, “There’s a reason they call it ‘hot-glue’.”  Why, just two evenings ago, the Lovely Lady asked me to help position a piece of cardboard for a project she was working on and I stuck my thumb right in front of the gun as she moved toward her first glue point.  Rule of thumb (just so you know and yes, pun intended):  You should always let the glue cool off before attempting to remove it from your skin.  Hot glue spread around only makes the third-degree burns cover a larger area.

Again, a few moments before I sat down to write tonight, I found myself scrambling for one of the ubiquitous bandages to stem the flow of blood from my fore-finger.  I understand how to use tools.  Really, I do!  I know the rules for safe usage of all the hand-operated implements in my work bench.  I just don’t follow them.  I comprehend completely that the item held in your hand is not a safe surface on which to apply pressure with a screwdriver, but placing it on the bench makes it harder to see (and takes extra time to clear a space), so now I have an inch long laceration on my finger which throbs as I type.  Somehow, it is easier to use a razor blade when you cut toward, rather than away, from your body.  The list goes on.  Files, hack-saws, pliers…all have contributed to the periodic blood-letting and frequent howls of pain.  Even the tape dispenser has played its part in the sad tableau a time or two.  No, the investors at Johnson and Johnson can rest easy.  Their funds are safe.

Why do I repeat the dangerous actions time and time again?  You have no doubt heard that one definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, while expecting a different result.  I don’t really think my sanity is seriously in question (yet), but this does beg the question, does it not?   I cut corners to save time, but pay the price in pain.  I take the easy way to work on a project, only to spend the next few days wincing every time I move the injured appendage.  I’m just not sure how to modify my behavior after all these years.  Maybe I never will.

I’m not sure if it fits, but I recall a story another supervisor told me years ago about his shop teacher in high school.  The shop teacher was a stickler for safety, insisting on eye protection and hard hats when appropriate.  He was constantly correcting unsafe procedures around the table-saws and other power tools and giving instructions regarding the use of utility knives, awls, and hammers.  All of that was undone in a few seconds one fateful afternoon.  As the entire class worked on a project in the shop, the teacher spotted a retractable tape measure, with the tape extended and locked in place, lying on the floor.  Pouncing on it quickly, he demanded to know to whom the tape belonged.  As the unlucky culprit admitted ownership, the teacher launched into a tirade about how unsafe it was to leave the tape stretched out.  Someone might have tripped over it, it might have gotten caught in a power tool, and someone could even cut himself on it.  As he spoke, he released the lock.  The tape zipped back into its case, gashing the teacher’s hand as it slid past.  It took numerous stitches to close the wound, but no amount of time spent in the emergency room could undo the damage done to his reputation as a safety expert.  Sometimes, bad stuff just happens, no matter how careful we are.

I guess what I’m saying is that you’ll get no deep spiritual truths from me tonight.  No life lessons, no earth-shattering philosophies, just a casual shrug of the shoulders.  I’ll probably continue to muddle through life, with a cut here and a burn there.  The alternative is for me to sit and vegetate in my easy chair.  And, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, I like my easy chair.  Naps are good for the soul.  That said, I hope that the undertaker has to pry a tool of some sort out of my battered hands when they come to take me away.  Sitting in the easy chair is okay for a bit of rest and relaxation.  But, I’ve still got some living to do and there’ll be a good bit of work done before I’m finished.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I just hope the Lovely Lady remembers that we need some Band-Aids when she goes shopping later this week.

“Say, do you think they call it a “nail-gun” because it shoots nails?”
(Al, in “Home Improvement”~1990’s Television sit-com)

“Let us then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate.
Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labour and to wait.”
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~American poet~1807-1882)

vanilla

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

We had an argument at the dinner table today.  Well, not so much an argument, as a discussion…No…it was an argument.  I’m assuming that some of you will want to weigh in, so you can get your keyboards and smart phones ready to make your comments.  We were arguing, strangely enough, about ice cream flavors.

I will admit to being no connoisseur of gourmet foods.  I am not a “foody” in any way.  I eat food.  Real food.  I’m not fooled by a little raspberry sauce drizzled around a dish so tiny you have to use the lowest section of your trifocals to find it on the plate.  Presentation has nothing to do with the meals I like.  Flavor and texture.  Those are the most important attributes I’m seeking in the materials that pass my lips.  For instance, corn on the cob, fresh from the garden, husked and boiled in water, with a little salt and butter added…now that’s real food.  Creamed corn?  Not at all!  While there is a slight corn-like flavor to the recipe, the dreadful mushy, slimy dish resembles corn not at all.  A fresh tomato is good for any number of things.  Eaten by itself in wedges?  Sliced and laid atop a freshly grilled hamburger patty?  One of a few select ingredients in a plain dinner salad?  All wonderful conditions in which to consume the enigmatic fruit/vegetable.  Stewed and breaded?  I think the Valley Girl of the Seventies said it as delicately as I can put it – “Gag me with a spoon!”

You begin to see a pattern here, don’t you?  I like plain food.  The honest flavors and natural textures of foods are a treat to the palate and need very little embellishment.  I think I’m what used to be called a “meat and potatoes” man.  I’ll eat those other dishes when they are on the menu; even enjoy them at times.  But, for comfort food, for feeling that all is right with the world, I’ll have the fried chicken with mashed potatoes, thank you!  Sure, a little white gravy will go nicely on the potatoes, but not too much.  I want to taste the food I masticate.

Vanilla ice cream.  It’s what I prefer.  Actually, what I crave, since it’s not really supposed to be in my diet at all now.  If you’ll promise not to tell the Lovely Lady, I will admit to having a serving of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla just this evening.  I passed on it at dinner today.  But, it called my name for the rest of the day, so I answered.  Just a little.  Vanilla is an amazing flavor.  If you must know, that was the reason for the “discussion” at the dinner table.  One of our guests refused the offer of this food-of-the-gods after the meal, with one word, “Yuck!”  It was her contention that vanilla is plain, a non-flavor, if you will.  While there was a day I would have agreed with her assessment, I will readily confess that I have seen the error of my ways.  My sister-in-law (aided by her husband) creates an incredible home-made vanilla ice cream, the memory of which will make you want to spit out any Cookies and Cream you taste thereafter.  I have had Butter Pecan I thought was really good, but one spoonful of Aunt Jan’s homemade recipe drove away any fond thought of that plastic flavor which remained.

I have thought of this phenomenon numerous times, while consuming unseemly quantities of the fat-laden nectar.  I’m convinced that when we start to add flavors to the original, we begin a journey down a path that leads to all kinds of excess which make us forget what we loved in the first place.  A teaspoonful of chocolate syrup added today, turns into a couple of tablespoons the next time and before you know it, you’re consuming some substance unidentifiable as ice cream, with a name like Chocolate Chunky Peanut Butter Cookie Dough Nightmare, and wondering how you could have sunk so low.  (You may press “send” on those angry notes any time you are ready now…)

What’s my point, you ask?  As usual, I employ the ridiculous to illustrate the plain truth:  It is so simple to leave the path of clean, straightforward joys, mingling them with gaudy, overpowering extravagance, and before we know it, we no longer recognize the original product as real, as desirable. “Plain Vanilla” we call it, implying that it is somehow lacking.  The concept holds true throughout our culture.  Clean cut, wholesome young men and women are replaced by Hollywood with surgically enhanced and painted caricatures with attitude problems.  A criminal record is a plus, not an embarrassment.  If pets are important to you, it is no longer acceptable to just have a dog in the backyard, buying dry dog food at the local supermarket when they run out.  We must shop at stores which cater to the pet’s whims, offering amazingly expensive toys, clothes (yes, clothes!), and food.  Don’t leave that poor pooch alone at home all day!  Doggie Day Care is the only loving way to treat Fido in this culture!  Families who enjoy the simple pleasures of spending time together playing at the park are replaced with the Madison Avenue image of the family who spends together at the amusement park, while wearing costly mouse ears and hugging imaginary princesses who have no interest in returning the adoration.  Bigger, better, more flavor, more excitement…all these are desirable; while plain, clean, pure,and simple are pejoratives used to poke fun.  The add-ons eclipse the original, making it seem obsolescent and passe’.

I’ll have two scoops of Vanilla, please.  I’m fairly sure that great things are more often accomplished by just plain folks.  Heroes are more likely to be normal people with simple values than they are to be the fake, embellished stars on television.  Honest and responsible young adults are reared in the homes of honest and responsible parents.

On second thought, make that just one scoop.  (Watching my calories and fat intake, you see?)  Still Vanilla.  It’s an amazing flavor…

“‘White,’ Saruman sneered.  ‘It serves as but a beginning. The white cloth may be dyed, the white page may be overwritten, the white light may be broken.’  ‘In which case, it is no longer white,’ Gandalf answered.  “And, he who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom.'”
(Lord of the Rings~J.R.R. Tolkien)

“‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free, 
’tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…”
(Simple Gifts~Elder Joseph Bracket~American Shaker songwriter~1797-1882)

Furless Felines

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“Mom! I want to ride my bike in the front yard!”  The insistent young man had left the low branch of the tree, where he was performing an acrobatic trick we used to call “skinning the cat,” starting from hanging on the branch and then flipping up and over it, barely missing the other branches with his head as he spun.  Now, he sat impatiently waiting for his mother to move out of the way, but she didn’t oblige.  She had already told the preschooler that he wasn’t to take his bicycle through the gate, knowing that he had a huge backyard in which to ride safely, but he really, really wanted to ride his big boy bike (no training wheels!) outside the confines of the fenced backyard.  His mom stood her ground, so he backed away from the gate.  Still objecting loudly, he turned and pedaled off around the back.  Obviously, he understood that when Mom said “No,” she meant it.

Well, that’s the way it appeared to me, for just a moment.  The young fellow’s mom and dad stood outside the fence and we talked about everything and nothing, just enjoying the company.  A few moments later, I saw the blond head of the little guy poke tentatively out the front door of the house.  Pretty quickly, the little bicycle’s front wheel and handlebars were visible coming out of the door also.  Our conversation came to a pretty sudden stop as his parents became aware of his intentions.  The disappointed boy pointed his mount the other way and headed back once more to the dull and oh-so-tame backyard to pedal along the familiar paths worn by daily use.  I couldn’t help but be proud of the innovative lad.  I think he takes after his grandfather a little bit.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.  I had to grin as I thought of how it applied so accurately to this adventurous boy in more ways than one.  Once again, a familiar adage lights the way to original thought.  I have wondered why anyone would want to skin a cat, so I explored the origins of this well-known phrase, only to be left disappointed.  It seems that no one can point to a widespread practice of removing the hide from felines as the inspiration for the saying.  The use of the phrase is documented well back into the seventeenth century, so neither can it have anything to do with the aforementioned trick of flipping up over a gymnastic bar or branch of a tree.  The name for that maneuver doesn’t appear until well after the mid-nineteenth century.  To my amusement, I found another similar phrase which was also in use early on:  “There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream.”  My disappointment at not finding any proof of a widespread trade in tabby pelts will have to go by the wayside.  I may, however, have to find a way to incorporate that newly discovered adage into everyday use.

As much as I would prefer that my grandson not use his intelligence to find ways around his parents instructions, I admire his quick wit and inventiveness.  We can only hope that his Mom and Dad find a way to guide his adroitness at finding alternative methods to more constructive and acceptable uses.  A ready wit and the ability to adapt are equally as useful in productive avocations as they are in delinquent acts.  Time will tell, but knowing his parents, I’m betting on the former.

The ability to think originally, to change gears and take another approach is a gift which will serve throughout life.  We hit barriers in life almost daily.  Many of us panic and stand petrified.  The tried and tested routine has failed and we have no idea how to proceed.  The innovators, the trailblazers…they have the innate ability to see alternatives, to think through the problem and come up with a different path which achieves the same purpose.  I would like to be one of them.  Oh, I have moments of brilliance…okay, these days more like nano-seconds of brilliance…where I can think “outside the box” as the overused catchphrase goes, but it takes longer and longer, the more set in my ways I become.  What a breath of fresh air it was to me today, to think about the future for the young rascal, as he learns to turn that bent for disobedience and selfishness into positive behavior.  The innovation and adventurous spirit turned to worthy undertakings will work to his advantage for his entire lifetime.

And, while it’s dark and no one is watching, I may just go out to the maple tree in my backyard and see if there really is more than one way to skin the cat.  Yeah…maybe not.  Probably the only one who would lose any skin would be this old man.  Maybe I’ll just rest up for tomorrow.    I’m pretty sure that there will be an opportunity or two to test out the old adage again then.

“You have a ready wit.  Tell me when it’s ready.”
(Henny Youngman~American comic~1906-1998)

“We must cut our coat according to our cloth, and adapt ourselves to changing circumstances.”
(William Inge~English priest and educator~1860-1954)

A Season and a Purpose

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The old vintage guitar sits gleaming in its case.  I am amazed at the condition.  Over fifty years old and it is nearly impossible to see any wear on the guitar.  The frets show no sign of erosion from contact with the strings, the back has no indication of any of the finish wear we call “buckle rash”.  As I examine the pristine instrument, the question grows in my head.  Where has this guitar been for the last fifty years?  It was not an expensive instrument, not a famous brand name.  No, it was a catalog store purchase, bought sight unseen for the purpose of being played, probably by some blue collar worker, or by one of his kids.  It was not the type of guitar you would baby: carefully avoiding scratching the pickguard, wiping the strings clean after use.  This guitar, you would play for all you’re worth, arms flailing, pick pummeling the strings at every up and down stroke, maybe even drumming on the big hollow body for effect.  It is not a high-bred instrument, dedicated to quiet studios and recital halls.  The working man’s guitar I hold in my hands shouldn’t have looked this nice for more than a few weeks after it was delivered by the postman and breathlessly torn free of its shipping carton and packaging.

Yet, here it is.  The finish is as bright as the day it was hung on the rack in the drying room at the factory.  True enough, there are the telltale signs of aging for which I have been disciplined to look.  There is the “checking” in the varnish, a trait common to the old finishes.  The metal pieces have some pitting from oxidation and a little discoloration from hands resting on them while playing.  But, the wear which comes with long hours of use, the evidence of the instrument having made beautiful music for all these many years…there is none of that.  I find myself almost sad, even as I realize that the condition is a boon to me as a reseller.  Sad, because this guitar…which should have already had many years of soothing spirits with quiet ballads, of exciting the senses with the pulsing rhythm of pop songs, of eliciting the wonder at the virtuoso’s touch on the strings while the dazzling classical melodies and counter melodies fill the air…this beautiful instrument, has evidently been sitting in its case in someone’s closet or under their bed.  What a waste!

The other day, a couple of ladies brought in a guitar they wanted me to appraise for them.  It was about the same age as this beauty I see before me today.  One of the ladies carried in the tattered chipboard case under her arm, since the handle had long since been torn off of it.  I opened the shabby top of the case, half-expecting to find a junky Oriental-made instrument, probably unplayable due to abuse and neglect.  It is what I usually find in old cases like this.  But when the battered lid was lifted, the open case revealed a fifty-year old Gibson electric guitar, beautiful in its own right.  The poor old thing!  The top had originally been a beautiful sunburst finish, bright red at the edges, fading to a lovely brownish yellow in the center.  There was no color to this top but a pale, sun-faded yellow…not a bit of red remained, except a faint pinkish hue right at the outside edge.  The frets were worn, the fingerboard scalloped by years of use, from some old guy’s gnarled fingertips pressing strings down again and again, perhaps to play the chords of the rhythm guitar part seconding the more talented lead guitarist’s melody.  Then again, who can tell?  This might have been the guitar which carried the melody again and again as old friends got together to make music and enjoy each other’s company.  The back showed signs of a buckle and more than a few shirt buttons rubbing against the finish as it moved with the player, the instrument and its owner both making beautiful music together.  The tuning machines had worn out and been replaced; the replacements themselves showing serious signs of fatigue, ready for a new set to step in and help with keeping the strings up to pitch.  The sight of this guitar made me smile, even gave me a warm feeling of joy at the success achieved by the makers of this fine instrument, now worn and tired.

The antithetical treatment of the two instruments gave me pause today, as I gazed upon the physical beauty of the pristine guitar and then remembered the sun-faded and scarred one I examined a few days ago.  To the collector, as well as to the casual observer, the owner of the unsullied instrument will appear to be the smarter of the two.  I will beg to differ.  A musical instrument which does not make music is simply a composite of different materials.  An instrument is not an instrument until it is used.  The word we have for that is “failure”.  The cloistered instrument has achieved neither the intent of the maker, nor the intent of the musician who purchased it.  It may be an object of art and a thing of beauty, but as a musical instrument it is an abject failure until the pure, clear notes progress from its structure and vibrating strings.

Many years ago, I visited in the San Joaquin Valley of California.  This is one of the most productive farming areas in the country, with the produce from this fertile valley being distributed in practically every state in the Union.  I was saddened to note, as we drove through the orange groves, that in several places entire groves of trees were being uprooted.  I commented on this and my passenger replied that this was something they did regularly.  “After a few years, if the trees aren’t yielding the fruit as they should, they are bulldozed out and new ones which will produce are planted.”   The trees were beautiful still, with full deep green leaves and strong, sturdy branches.  They weren’t fulfilling their intended purpose though, and that made them unprofitable, a failure for the farmers. 

I’m contemplating the sermon that could fill a whole lot of white (or blue) space below.  What I think I’ll do is just shut up.  You won’t fail to understand the lesson of the guitars or the orange trees, will you?  I’m trying not to miss it myself.  We’ve all been given gifts and have a purpose for being right where we are.  If we don’t even attempt to complete the process, all we’re doing is using up air and taking up space.

I’m hoping that the next owner of this beautiful guitar will help it to achieve its purpose at last, after more than fifty years of waiting and taking up space.  After fifty years of hanging around, I’m kind of ready to make some music myself.  How about you?

“Every branch that does not bear good fruit, is cut down and thrown into the fire.”
(Matthew 7:19 NIV)

“The purpose of life is not to be happy.  It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson~American poet and essayist~1803-1882)

Pay the Piper

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The new week stretches out ahead of me, already dark and foreboding.  I look ahead and see orders to be placed which should have been completed last week, guitars to be repaired which were scheduled weeks ago, and not least of all…tax reports to be completed and filed.  You probably filed your taxes for last year way back in April.  Not this brainiac!  While you were struggling through your  Form 1040s with W2s in hand and maybe even a Schedule C or a Form 1099 looming, I was happily filing an extension.  I provided my Social Security number and a signature, and I was done.  Quick and painless, just like that, while you were still wrestling with interest and dividends and trying to pin down your donations.  Like the grasshopper, I fiddled while the silly ants scrambled back and forth gathering their food to fill their stores.  Well, my winter has come and I’m gazing enviously at all of you brilliant ants, snug and comfy in your armchairs, enjoying Sunday and Monday Night Football (or perhaps even an episode of “Survivor”), while I try desperately to find the documents which I know were filed away somewhere in preparation for this fateful week. 

Over my lifetime, I have worked diligently to perfect the skill of procrastination, a fact I’ve admitted freely to you before.  I’ve also discovered that my affliction is common to many, if not actually most, of us who call ourselves human beings.  We love to do the things we love, therefore we dispense with them in a timely manner.  Conversely, we hate to do the things we hate and put those tasks off for as long as we possibly can.  We’ve talked before about hard lessons and how we learn from them.  Tolkien says it laconically, “The burned hand teaches best.”  I can only wish that were true of this disability.

I have been here again and again, with a sure knowledge that I shall arrive at this point anew in the very near future.  As I write this, I’m trying to conjure up some credible explanation for this habitual pattern.  The only thing that springs to mind is the feeling which comes at the completion of a job well done barely in time.  It could be that there is also just a bit of the rebel in me and this is my way of flaunting it.  After all, what is more satisfying than getting to the Post Office just as the last mail drop is being emptied for the day and being able to drop the packages right into the mail cart?  Or…how about being the last customer admitted to the Revenue Office as the doors are locked on the last day of the month in which your tags are due?  Possibly…handing that English assignment to your professor at the last minute before the deadline to turn it in?  I can feel those heads nodding out there.  You’ve done that!  You’ve even felt the sense of power it gives you, the satisfaction at challenging the deadline and beating it! 

I must also report that Mr. Tolkien said, “It’s the job that’s never started that takes longest to finish.”  I hear crazy talk like that from one of my favorite authors and am slightly disappointed, but then I remember that he left behind many unfinished manuscripts. In fact, the beginnings of his masterpiece, “The Lord Of The Rings” appear to have their origins sometime around 1920, but he didn’t actually publish the first of the books until the mid 1950’s.  My faith in the man’s genius is restored. 

But still, the week stretches interminably ahead.  I shall endeavor to repair the damage already done.  Oh yes…sometimes I miss the deadlines.  Then, for some reason, with no chance of the excitement of last minute victory, the already tardy projects are left to languish, sometimes until the customer (and possibly even a Lovely Lady) demands completion.  There is no joy, no satisfaction in completing a late task, simply the knowledge that it is done.  Such is the danger of pushing the limits, of daring the deadline.  Sometimes, the hand does get burned.  I’m just not sure it teaches much in this case.

 But I’ll square my shoulders and lift my head…and then?  I shall accomplish what I can this week.  Sometimes all we can do is what is in front of us to do.  Sound simplistic?  I just know that if I look at the mountain, I’m overwhelmed.  But one by one, the jobs can be peeled away, hopefully to reveal a completed “to do” list.  I’ve never been so lucky, but it’s always a possibility.  Who can tell?

Oh!  I’ll start working on my procrastination problem too.  Of course, you know when.  Why, tomorrow, certainly!

“…Not all who wander are lost.”
(J.R.R. Tolkien~English author~1892-1973)

“The hasty and the tardy meet at the ferry.”
(Arabian proverb)