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The Night The Music Died

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I wasn’t able to wait on her right when she came in the door, but I recognized the familiar face and let her know that I would be with her soon.  It was a few moments before I finished with the customer who was looking at guitars and moved to the counter where she stood patiently.  I greeted her and asked how I could help her.  I expected a request to see some guitar tuning machines, or possibly some fret wire.  I had even sold her more than a few guitar, and banjo, and dulcimer, strings.  Her talented husband was a cabinet maker who also built an amazing variety of stringed instruments – everything from the hurdy gurdy you see pictured on this page, to dulcimers, to bouzoukis.  The request for instrument parts never came today.

Matter-of- factly, the gentle lady said, “You know he passed away.”  I didn’t know.  The tears in my eyes came unbidden, much as they do now as I write.  I was stunned.  I still am.  Her husband was a rough cut, but warmhearted, man who loved what he did.  He loved working in wood, and he was an artist at fashioning the material into musical instruments.  Oh…that wasn’t how I would have described him when I first met him.  I remember the first couple of items the aspiring instrument maker brought to me.  The woodwork was good enough in the mountain dulcimers, but he didn’t have much of a grasp of the need to marry the art of cabinetry and the science of sound in the instruments he was attempting.  Aesthetically they were acceptable, but musically, they weren’t up to the standards we were used to seeing in commercially made instruments.  That was close to twenty years ago.  He learned.  And how!  The last instruments he proudly brought into the store to show to us were fine examples of the instrument-maker’s craft.  I am deeply saddened that I’ll never again have the experience of seeing the pride in his eyes as I admire the fine craftsmanship in one of his instruments.  I will miss the discussions we have had many times of techniques, and styles, and the business side of marketing his creations.  I will miss a friend.

I spent a few moments speaking with his widow about him and helped her with a question she had about one of his instruments and she was gone.  Thirty-five years, she shared with him.  If I am stunned about the sudden loss, she is devastated.  Her world is shaken and, in her eyes, will never be set right.  I am confident that time will change the anguish and her faith will aid in healing the loss, but she is struggling.

I was still thinking about the departure of my friend a couple hours later, when a young man came in with an item to sell.  I recognized the piece and said so, not thinking about the direction the conversation would take us.  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I remembered that I had sold the item to his brother just one day before he died, mere months ago.  He was twenty-one.  A fine guitarist, his music is now silenced (as far as we can hear).  I mentioned him and his family in a post back in May entitled “Memorial Day”, in which I also talked about the sorrow of my grandson at the loss of our family dog.  As the brother of the young man stood in front of me today, I saw a shadow cross his face at my reminder that the item he held had been purchased by his brother the day before he died.  “That was the last time I saw him…right out here in your parking lot,”  he said with glistening eyes.  I remembered that this young man’s car had pulled up as his brother had left the store and that they had stood, leaning against the back bumper of his car and talked for ten or fifteen moments.  As I considered the young man’s all-too-short life, and the empty place his passing has left in the hearts of those who loved him, my eyes filled again.

A couple of weeks ago, in my town and surrounding areas, homes and churches and businesses were shaken as an earthquake rippled under the earth’s surface. I felt the movement, noticed the light bulbs jingling in their shades and guitars jiggling on their mounts, and I even heard the whole earth almost groan as the wave passed. It wasn’t a disastrous quake.  It did make me think…a lot.  Where do you go when every safe place you trust is a potential trap?  In hurricanes, folks head for storm shelters; in tornadoes and severe thunderstorms, we have our cellars and hall closets and “fraidy holes”.  Not so with a severe earthquake.  The buildings we have built as solidly as possible are likely to trap us, the cellars – to collapse.  Even outside, there can be a danger of earth movement with sinkholes opening and rifts appearing.  Where is the firm foundation on which we can place our faith for safety?

I’m guessing that you can connect the dots.  We’ve got very few guarantees in this life.  Relationships we think are rock-solid dissolve without warning, in moments.  Friends and family members who were standing before us an instant before, seemingly healthy and immortal, are gone in the blink of our eye.  Fortunes are lost, governments toppled, and we look on, stupefied.  It seems that there is no safe place.  Well, perhaps, just one.  But, if you anticipate that it will keep you from sorrow and loss, that is not its promise.  Not from, but through, is the promise this Safe Place makes to us.  I don’t know why.  I’ll ask someday.

In the meantime,  I’m wondering if the music really died with my two friends.  Nah, I’m pretty sure the song goes on, just in a different place.  We have hope.  It is enough.

Oh Joy, that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
(“Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go” by George Matheson~Scottish minister~1842-1906)

Con-Fused

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“There was a buzzing noise and then it wouldn’t work.”  The kid with the pierced nose and plugs in his earlobes stood dejectedly with amplifier-head in hand and told me his story.  His heavy metal band had been rocking out at a very loud jam session in the garage when disaster overtook them.  I was afraid to learn of what transpired after the buzzing and ceasing-operation part of the event, but I encouraged him to go on.  “Did you unplug it and bring it right in?”  It was no surprise when the young man sheepishly (How does one look like a sheep with a large piece of rubber in one’s earlobe?  One might well ask…) revealed to me that they had not chosen that path.  “We figured that the fuse had blown, so we put in another one.”  I suggested hopefully, “The same size, right?”  No such luck.  “Well, we just pulled one out of another amp that was sitting there.  When we turned it back on, it buzzed again and then smoke poured out of it.  It smelled awful!”

I checked the fuse and found that the little glass and metal device was marked 10 amps.  The notation beside the socket said to use a “2 amp Slo Blo replacement fuse”.  They had inserted a fuse that took five times the current which would make it fail into a circuit which had already blown out the standard sized one, thereby guaranteeing extensive damage to the rest of the amplifier components.  No wonder the young man was standing there looking “mutton-headed”.  Again and again, I have told my customers that if a fuse blows, there is something wrong with the unit, not with the fuse.  The vast majority of them still believe that the fuse is at fault, when it is actually the only thing saving them from having a much bigger problem.

Warning signs.  Why do we ignore them?  The little yellow light next to the fuel gauge came on in the Lovely Lady’s car this afternoon.  What do you think we’ll do about it?  Pull out the bulb and replace it?  Check the relay that sends current to that bulb?  No, of course not!  I’ll take the car to the gas station and spend an inordinate amount of money to put more fuel in the tank.  The light tells me that I’ve already ignored the other warning sign, the gauge itself, for too long.  Disaster is imminent.  The correct response is not to attempt repairs on the warning system, but to remedy the situation with actions which will avert the disaster.

How many times have we read of lethal fires in homes where the homeowner has smoke alarms installed, but they are sitting with almost dead batteries in them and the leads disconnected.  Oh, you’ve experienced the annoyance.  You were sitting in your easy chair and you heard a “beep”.  Moments later, the sound was repeated.  When you finally responded and looked for the source, you realized that the battery in the alarm was low.  How did you respond?  If you were smart, you inserted a new battery and forgot about it for another year or so.  If you weren’t so far-sighted, you just reached up and took the wires loose from the battery and promptly forgot about it for whatever length of time it took you to notice it again.  Well obviously, the battery being connected was causing the problem, so you cured that dilemma. That is, unless the genuine disaster occurred and then the absurdity of the so-called solution would have been revealed.

We’re surrounded by warning signs which we ignore at our peril.  Open doors which we left locked should be a warning of an intruder, not a sign of a defective lock.  Incoherence and loss of memory in a normally astute person should prompt us to call 911, not simply to disparage the lack of intelligence in the loved one.  A child who tells us that they have a tummy ache probably doesn’t need a bowl of Spaghetti-Os.  Most of us would not miss these signs, but we miss others which are just as, if not more, important, all the time.  In our personal relationships, in our private lives, we ignore the most obvious of signs and we lose our way.   I’m not going to tell you the alarms which I have going off with frequency in my life, because you’ll just be able to gloat that you don’t have those to deal with.  I’m also not going to speculate on yours; that would just give me cause to feel superior since they wouldn’t be my struggle.  Instead, I’ll invite you to think about the warning signs present in your life right now.  If you stop a minute and consider, you’ll know the ones I’m talking about.  Pay attention to them.  They may save your life, may save your marriage, may just keep you from shaming yourself.

The alarms are not the culprit; they simply let you know that something is wrong.  Today, I will be thankful for, and pay attention to, blown fuses and low fuel lights.  There just might be one or two others I’ll be heeding, as well.

“The first bringer of unwelcome news hath but a losing office…”
(“Henry IV”~William Shakespeare~English playwright~1564-1616)

“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face.”
(My mother, along with a few others)

Getting an Education

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Hey, can you teach me to play the guitar?”  The teenager had been watching the twenty-something year-old man playing an intricately-fingered song on his guitar as both of them sat in my music store a week or so ago.  The young man looked at the boy in front of him as if he were an alien, just stepped out of a transporter field from an unknown planet.  At least, that’s what I figured the strange look meant.  “Nah…I don’t teach at all,” he replied; just a little too quickly, I thought.  As I watched (and listened), I realized that the look was something else.  Now, where had I seen that look before?  Oh yes!  It was what we like to call the “deer-in-the-headlights” stare.  Fear?  This guy knows his instrument like the back of his own hand!  He’s been playing since he was just a young boy.  What does he have to be afraid of?

A few days later, the young man was back.  Confidently, he took down a guitar and started playing a blues riff on a beautiful acoustic guitar; first playing it repetitively, until I started to have a thought that I could get tired of this droning chord/arpeggio pattern.  Right about then he added in a little melody line, keeping the bass and mid-range notes of the riff going as the new notes worked their way around the (by now) familiar minor rhythmic pattern.  Around, up, and down, the melody wove itself into the music, until you couldn’t tell the old from the new.  I love having talented musicians play music in the store, even though I rarely take part myself (no talent, you see).  Just then, I noticed another young man sitting on an amplifier back in the corner.  Not nearly as accomplished a guitarist, he was listening with obvious respect for the talent of the first player.  He did have a guitar in his hand, and his fingers were moving on the frets and over the strings near the tone-hole, but you could only hear the first man playing.  I watched to see what would happen. I was pretty sure of the pattern of events to come, but waited for them to play out on their own.

Sure enough, within minutes, the hesitant, almost inaudible chords of the second guitar started to grow in volume.  The young man watched the hands of the talented player as the music continued to fill the air and, as he grew a little more confident, began to “second” the lead of the other player.  It wasn’t great, but the chord changes grew a little less clumsy after a few moments and the song,which at first had seemed perfect, was augmented and became, if possible, even more satisfying.  I heard, as the novice player stumbled a time or two over a change, the voice of the expert coaching him on the upcoming chords.  The next time, the change went more smoothly.  Moving away to take care of a customer at the cash register, I still kept my ear attuned to the harmonies issuing from the guitar section.  Within the next few moments, a distinct change came over the music I was hearing.  Both the lead and the second, or rhythm, voices had altered quite drastically in character.  The lead part was coming from a different guitar and was now a bit choppy; it faltered once in awhile, while the rhythm part was fuller and more confident.  The two players had changed roles in the musical conversation, with the younger player being a bit less fluent in the language being spoken.  Patiently, the other man called out a note or fret number once in awhile, even stopping a time or two to show the necessary lick to the young learner.

I wasn’t anxious for the experience to end, but eventually it did, with one of the men having an appointment to get to.  I marveled at the episode, even though it’s not an uncommon occurrence at the store.  And, because I don’t want to spoil the opportunity for it to happen again with other inexperienced players, I didn’t point out the obvious to the accomplished young musician.  He is a teacher!  He says that he can’t teach and he believes that to be so, but the evidence speaks against his conclusion.  All that’s necessary for teaching (and learning) to occur is for a skilled individual to be concerned that another, less skilled individual not be left to stumble around in the dark.  After many years of doing similar extemporaneous education myself, I am finally admitting that I teach on a regular basis.  I too, have told many people that I cannot teach, but experience has led me to understand that this is a fallacy.  On any given day, as a non-teacher, I teach multiple students about their instruments, about technical details of playing, and even once in while…I can teach a few principals of music theory, although it’s more a case of the blind leading the blind when that happens.

You say you don’t teach?  Wrong!  All around me, I see teachers.  Kids teaching other kids how to do tricks on skateboards, athletes teaching other athletes the finer points of their specialty, hunters sharing tips on woodcraft and the art of field-dressing with their buddies.  Even the Lovely Lady learns (and teaches) new forms and techniques of various handcrafts from her co-workers as they visit together during their breaks.  The list goes on without end, because that’s how we learn.  Person to person, parent to child, expert to amateur, the gift of ideas and technical ability continues to be given again and again.  While technology has an amazing, ever-expanding ability to store and share data, it won’t ever eliminate the need for the exchange of ideas and the demonstration of both time-honored and new techniques from one person to another.  Some will argue with me about that, but I contend that machines simply don’t have the capacity to understand the ability of the learner or to change teaching methods to fit the situation.  Even if you are sure that I am wrong, I will have to be be shown the evidence in person to believe it.  And someone showing it to me will prove the point of my argument.

Throughout history, we have passed information and instruction from one generation to another.  There is not one of us who doesn’t teach in one form or another.  Some are incredibly gifted at it; some have developed their talent into a vocation by pursuing educational degrees.  But, I maintain that the carpenter, the auto mechanic, the musician, the seamstress…all have the same responsibility to teach, to insure that their knowledge doesn’t die with them.  It’s also how we pass on our belief system to the next generation, insuring that they understand why we believe what we do, what drives us to behave as we do, and how it changes us and gives us hope.  Many have abandoned teaching about their faith because “we have professionals to do that”.  Our children and their children are the losers.  The instruction to God’s people thousands of years ago still applies today in myriad ways: “Talk with your children about My words when you sit at home, when you walk along the road, when you lie down, and when you get up.”

Nothing has changed.  Teach!  It’s what we do.  Oh, yes…it can’t hurt to learn a little more along the way, too.

“Be an opener of doors for such as come after you.”
(Ralph Waldo Emerson~American poet and essayist~1803-1882)

“Teaching should be such that what is offered is perceived as a valuable gift and not as a hard duty.”
(Albert Einstein~American Physicist~1879-1955)

Arm and Hammer

~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

I select the orange box with the familiar logo of the muscular forearm and strong hand gripping a hammer, taking it down from the shelf.  A teaspoon of the contents from the box is all it takes.  I mix it with three or four ounces of water, and a few swallows later my stomach feels relief from the discomfort of indigestion.  Recently, while working on the old blue pickup truck (you remember…my “pig in a poke”), I discover the need to clean up some battery cables which are corroded with the acid which is contained in the battery itself.  The corrosion makes it so the electric current necessary to turn over the engine can’t reach the powerful starter.  If there’s no current, the motor won’t turn and fire.  Into the kitchen I go, reaching for the same familiar orange box.  No, the problem hasn’t caused me to have an upset stomach.  I have another use in mind for the magic powder.  Contents mixed with water again, I carry the concoction out to the blue bomb and pour it over the terminals, plying an old toothbrush to remove the offending acid as the mixture does its work.  A few second’s labor, a couple of bolts tightened, and voila!  The motor is purring as well as any vehicle with almost three hundred thousand miles on it ever has.

The scene moves to a different kitchen in our little town.  The man reaching for the orange box is sick and in pain, just as he has been for more than two years now.  The cure for his illness isn’t in the box, but he believes that it is.  Taking down the box, he measures out a small amount of the powder, not into water, but into a plain white envelope with an address on the front.  Again and again, he measures out the powder, reputed for its curative and beneficial qualities.  Envelope after envelope receives its portion, until the job is completed.  He knows he will feel better when the task is completed.  He won’t.

The envelopes are mailed to their addressees, along with notes which are calculated to cause feelings of fear.  However, as the envelopes are delivered, it’s not the notes which cause the most trouble, but that little bit of white powder contained in the same paper pouch.  As the letters are opened, the recipients react first with disbelief, then with terror.  “What is this powder?  Is it poison?  Will it make me sick?  Am I going to die?”  Emergency procedures are followed, the hazardous materials teams swing into action, and offices, or banks, or schools are evacuated.  Family members are terrified and work is at a standstill, all because of that white powder.  The very same powder I use for an upset stomach.  The same powder used to remove the corrosive battery acid and its damaging effects.

“Lunatic!” I said the word myself upon reading the news of the repeated missives sent to individuals.   “Creep!” I read that description from a disgusted contributor to an online news source.  “Idiot!”  The epithet came up in conversations about the situation at my music store.  The nameless, faceless criminal who was perpetrating this atrocious act was all of those and more.  We waited for the local police and the county sheriff, along with the FBI, to nail the horrible man, sending him to prison for a very, very long time.

They arrested him yesterday.  The individual they have accused of the crimes is a man I’ve known for thirty years, who is married to one of the Lovely Lady’s childhood friends.  He is a neighbor to my mother-in-law.  He’s a real person. I went to church with him, discussed God and our responses to His grace with him, sang in a mixed ensemble with him.  As my initial shock fades away, my mind searches for an explanation.  I understand the facts…he worked for the same company for twenty-eight years; was laid off two years ago; is bitter because some who kept their jobs had less seniority and may not even have been citizens of the United States.  The facts don’t explain the actions, if indeed he is responsible for them.

If you’ll pardon a little rehashing of my last post, I’m pretty sure this man fits into the “broken” category.  Whether he is guilty of the crimes or not, his emotional turmoil of the last couple of years has left him a shadow of the person he once was.  I remember him as an outgoing, engaged person who held his own in any discussion, a man who was involved in his church and who led his household with vigor and energy.  The photo released by the authorities upon his arrest tells a different story, as do other folks who have tried to engage him over the last year or so.  The eyes are empty, the once clean shaven and well-groomed visage is covered by a bushy, unkempt beard and mustache.  I actually didn’t recognize the man in the photo until reading the accompanying news story.

Does my exhortation for us to care for broken people extend to this “lunatic”, this “creep”?  My perspective has been shaken by the news, but my heart tells me that he needs friends even more in this extreme ordeal than ever before.  Another friend reminded me this evening that the old Native American saying might apply here.  “Don’t judge any man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.”  It would seem that we are in control of much less than we sometimes believe to be the case, and for us to condemn individuals who have broken under circumstances we have never endured is hypocritical.  I’m not sure that I would have made it two months in my friend’s shoes.  I really don’t want to find out, either.

I hope we don’t miss the lesson of the baking soda, either.  The powder which soothes and repairs also destroys and terrorizes.  Even the brand name embodies an image which is both helpful and destructive.  The hammer, wielded by a skilled workman, yields amazing structures…structures which a destructive person can decimate in moments with the same hammer.  In a person with pure motives, a steadfast focus on the success of a project is admirable.  When that single-minded focus is the attribute of a man bent on vengeance, it is lunacy.  When we work to right wrongs in a constructive way, we’re acclaimed as visionaries.  When tools which have potential for beneficial uses are turned into weapons of fear and stealth to show someone the error of their ways, a formerly law-abiding man becomes a despised criminal.  Good things can be used in horrible ways.  What once was respectable and upright becomes despicable and evil.

“There, but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford.”  The words, uttered by the sixteenth century reformer and martyr, remind us still today that our lives are not guided, nor controlled by we ourselves.  We stand upright, not because of our achievements, but because of One who sustains and upholds us.

Grace compels grace in its beneficiaries.  “As you have received, freely give.”

“It is of the mercies of God that we are not consumed, because His compassions never fail.  They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness!”
(Lamentations 3: 22,23)

“Grace isn’t a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal.  It’s a way to live.”
(Jacqueline Winspear~British/American novelist)

A Deal You Can’t Refuse

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment
When they were finished, the Maugrabin paid him their price, even that which he sought, and taking the lamps, carried them to the khan, where he laid them in a basket and fell to going round about in the markets and thoroughfares of the city and crying out, “Ho! who will barter an old lamp for a new lamp?” When the folk heard him crying this, they laughed at him and said, “Certes, this man is mad, since he goeth about, bartering new lamps for old.”  
We’ve all heard the story in one form or another.  It is one of the classic middle-eastern tales which are related in dramatic fashion in “One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”  The story is a favorite because it recounts the rags to riches adventures of a young man named Aladdin, who finds a magic lamp, wins the beautiful princess, and lives happily ever after.  As a young boy, I loved the story and wished desperately that there really was a magic lamp and a genie who could grant wishes.  Who hasn’t wished that?  I’m fairly confident that such a lamp does not exist and also pretty sure that we wouldn’t really want it to.  Well, it would be okay if I were the one to discover it, but not if anyone else did.  I certainly don’t want to live in someone else’s fantasy world.  But I digress.

I’m thinking tonight of damaged goods.  I bought a guitar from a young man the other day.  He had taken the instrument to a pawnshop in our town, hoping that the proprietor would offer him a reasonable amount for the old battered guitar he had.  The man behind the counter took one look at the guitar and sneered.  “Did you dig that piece of junk out of a dumpster?  I’ll give you five dollars and that’s being generous.”  The guitar did look a little the worse for the wear.  It has scratches over most of the body, especially near the sound hole.  There are pits on the fingerboard and, at one point, a sticker was applied to the top.  Now removed, you can still see the round spot where the finish around it faded with light exposure, but that spot remains dark.  Forty years of dirt and oils have discolored the finish and it could never be described as good-looking.   I examined the guitar and determined that it had value to me in spite of its worn condition, so I offered the young man twenty times what the pawn shop owner had.  I’m positive that I can make a profit on the deal because I see the potential of that old guitar to make beautiful music.  Come to think of it, I might actually keep the aged beauty for myself, simply because it’s a wonderful instrument that feels like an old friend already. 

“New lamps for old”?  What kind of madness is this?  In short, the villain in the story of the magic lamp understood that the value of that lump of copper or bronze which Aladdin possessed wasn’t in its beauty.  The value was in what was contained inside the lamp and he was willing to pay a great price to possess it himself.  He may have traded away many lamps before he got the one he wanted.  But, he was willing to pay the price.  Of course, we all know that he came to no good in the end.  But then, this blog actually isn’t about a villain, is it?

The longer I live, the more I realize that we…and not one of us is excluded…we are damaged goods.  Some of us show it more than others.  While I see a number of folks who wear their brokenness out in the open, a lot of us are really good at hiding it, too.  We disguise it with our successes and achievements, with our braggadocio, and our arrogance.  We even conceal it beneath our philanthropy, our benevolence.  But deep down under the surface we understand, to our chagrin and lasting embarrassment, that we are broken and not a little ugly.  I’m pretty sure that what we really long for, despite our childlike desire for a magic lamp and a genie, is someone to come along actually calling out, “New lamps for old.”  We need someone to realize the value of what is contained inside, despite our worn and tattered exterior.
Many of you who read this have heard that call already.  Grace is an unbelievable thing, almost a mad thing, like the villain of Aladdin’s day.  (What kind of crazy God would make such an offer?)  But, moving past the spiritual aspect, I’m wondering how many of us understand how important it is for us to respond to our own undeserved redemption with a down-to-earth, physical concern for other broken people.  We don’t get to say, “I got mine, now you get yours.”  I’m not talking about giving money to poor people or sending boxes of clothes to faceless children across the sea (not that we shouldn’t do that, too).  Right now, I’m speaking of caring for people, our neighbors, where they are…broken by life, by disappointment, by depression, by loss.  Who better to care for broken people, but broken people?  We know where it hurts, and what it takes to make it better.  
Some of the finest, most valuable musical instruments I have found have been the most abused, ugliest things you would ever want to see.  Neglected and devalued by ignorant people, they sit in dusty corners and hot attics, awaiting the touch of a caring and loving hand.  The results have been astonishing, again and again. 

I’m going to try to look for the value in the worn and tired folks I interact with today.   A word of encouragement (and possibly a smile) may be all that is required.  It’s a place to start anyway.  After that?  Well, we’ll just have to play it by ear…




“Chords that were broken will vibrate once more.”
(“Rescue the Perishing” by Fanny Crosby~American hymn writer~1820-1915)

“…Many a man with his life out of tune, battered and scarred with sin, he’s auctioned cheap to a thankless world…”
(“The Touch of the Master’s Hand”)

Some People!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I meant what I said and I said what I meant.  An elephant’s faithful, one hundred percent.”  The lovable elephant, Horton, made famous by Dr. Seuss, was making the statement to reassure the reader of his character.  Now, if I applied the rhyme to myself, I’m not sure if the second part of the doggeral would be accurate.  Still, it wouldn’t sound right to say, “…faithful, ninety-three percent.”  It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.  However, the initial assertion – I believe that I can stand by that.  I am fairly steadfast in attempting to speak exactly what I intend to say.  I even try to select the words carefully.  Unfortunately, some things don’t always work out the way we expect.  You see, words mean things…just not always what we think they do.

There is no question that, regardless of what I think I mean, someone out there can understand my words in a different way than I thought them.  A case in point:  Last week I posted a comment on a fairly popular site run by a fellow word-nerd (and when I say popular, I mean with other word-nerds).  The word-nerd in charge had requested that we send in examples of regional differences in terminology.  My mind immediately jumped to a running argu…sorry, discussion the Lovely Lady and I have had for years.  I grew up in Texas calling the writing utensil which contains a flowing indelible material within it, a pen.  Early in our relationship, she corrected me a time or two, instructing me that it was an ink pen, not simply a pen.  We have agreed to disagree, but frequently, I’ll poke a little fun and ask if she thinks I am writing with a pig pen if I don’t refer to it by her term.  Consequently, I used the pen/ink pen example in a post on the word-nerd’s site, calling attention to the difference between my (obviously) superior Texas vocabulary and the dialect of the “real South” (along with a few humorous examples of which pen could be meant, e.g., pig pen, state pen, etc.).  I expected that the entire post would be taken in the spirit in which it was offered, as an amusing observation of the differences in vernacular between different regions.  I was to be disappointed in that expectation.  Immediately, a true Southerner from a different state wrote a scathing attack on me, calling me “some people”, with the description following which lumped me in with many who think that they are intellectually superior and that all Southerners were ignorant.  I assure you that no such thing is true.  I believe that every region has a full complement of ignoramuses (should that be ignorami?), and the South has no edge on the competition there.  That said, it is evident that whatever it was the lady read, it wasn’t what I meant to say.  I wrote an amendment, but the damage was done.

It seems that every time I think I’ve gotten the language conquered…each time I sit back after writing a note (or even one of these posts) and read it through one last time with the sure knowledge that it says exactly what I intended, to my great chagrin, something like this episode occurs.  Communication, it would seem, is a tricky thing at best, possibly even a dangerous minefield in extreme cases.  As I write this, I begin to wonder why I’ve chosen to write so many times, given the peril in which I place myself each time I make another attempt.  Just my way of living dangerously, I guess.  Some men climb rocks, some jump out of airplanes.  I try to corral words into sentences and paragraphs, hopefully kept in line by correct punctuation and made comprehensible by lucid and logical placement of the words.  I’ve had a rough landing or two, but no long-term damage has been done.  So far.  I hope you’ll be patient with me.  I also hope you’ll correct me when I make stupid statements, or when I misspeak.  I’m happy that the Lovely Lady feels the freedom to send me an email once in awhile after reading these blogs early in the morning.  “Did you really mean…?  Shouldn’t that be a semi-colon?”  I hope you’ll feel the same liberty.  Clarification never hurts and frequently makes a good thought profound. 

While I’m contemplating elephants though, I can’t help thinking that their most storied trait is actually their astounding memory, not their faithfulness or communication skills.  Why just the other day, I heard about a couple of the gigantic creatures who were lolling in the local water hole when the older one spied a turtle sunning himself on a log.  Springing in action with an agility that belied his great size, he kicked the turtle a couple hundred feet through the air.  Returning to his comrade, he was met with the query, “Why did you do that?”  He explained that the turtle had bitten him on the trunk fifty years before.  “How do you remember that?” asked the younger elephant.  “Turtle recall,” came the emphatic reply.

Oh, now I’ll get letters from the turtle lovers.  I had better stop while I’m ahead, shouldn’t I?

“The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”
(George Bernard Shaw~Irish literary critic and playwright~1856-1950)

“The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean.”
(Robert Louis Stevenson~Scottish poet and author~1850-1894)

   

No Regrets? Yeah, Right!

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“What have you to say that you did not say at our last meeting? Or, perhaps you have things to unsay?”  Two former friends are speaking together in Tolkien’s “The Lord Of The Rings” when the above statement is made. You will recognize, of course that the second question is simply an impossibility.  I was reminded of this imaginary exchange as a friend today remarked of very real regret and of words that cannot be unsaid.  His sadness led me to reflect.  I have a closet full of things I have said which I want back; a closet full of actions I have carried out which I want undone.  A few of them happened many, many years ago, but still I recall the moments and hours of anguish they caused.  After years have passed, I still see pain in faces and hurt in eyes.

My memories go back to early childhood and an encounter with a (then) young lady who was trying to get me and a brother to do what was right.  The young lady was slightly mentally handicapped, but she knew right from wrong and also knew our parents and what they expected of us.  I remember as she took us by the hands and led us home, how we used the flexible sticks we grabbed as we were led along to hit her on the legs and back.  I was four.  I would like to undo that.

I won’t bore you with the litany of cruel and thoughtless acts and words throughout my early life.  Suffice it to say that there were many.  Quite a few of them can be brought to mind without much effort, others come at odd moments, triggered by conversations and life situations.  Cruelty to kind teachers, to kids who were different, to siblings…all these memories still have the power to bring regrets and recriminations, though they occurred years ago.  I want to undo those stupid and senseless deeds.  They are accomplished and I am unable to erase them.

As an adult, the thoughtless acts and words have continued.  I recall events with my children, both in younger years and as they advanced through their adolescent stages, for which I would gladly issue a recall.  But, they are gone beyond recall; acts completed and words already formed and spoken.  Sarcasm used on young children yields hurt spirits, selfishness on my part forms bitterness and resentment.  I want all of those acts and words back, but I can’t snatch them out of memory.

Just last week at the dinner table, while speaking with my now adult children, in stubbornness I insisted that I was correct regarding a subject about which I knew nothing.  I would prefer that the conversation had never taken place, but it did.  In my memory, the words still hang out there.  I wish I could just pluck them out of the air and have them disappear.  It’s not possible.

Do you understand why my heart is pained as my friend makes two simple statements today?  “Filled with regret.”  And later, “Words cannot be unsaid.”  I want to fix it for him, to tell him what I know about forgiveness and grace, but I cannot.  I do know about forgiveness and grace.  I have experienced both.  Still, I feel the pain of failure, of relationships damaged.  God’s forgiveness and grace erase the punishment for sinful acts, but the temporal consequences remain.  Our lives are filled with regrets and sadness as a result.

Is it dark enough for you yet?  Do you feel hopeless?  That was not my intent.  You see, here is what I know beyond the regret.  Hurtful words spoken cannot be unsaid, but they can be overshadowed by loving apologies and by constructive conversations that follow such apologies.  Angry actions cannot be taken back, but they can be blended into a palette of loving deeds and a consistent walk that demonstrates the grace which has been shown to us individually.  Will we forget?  No.  It seems certain to me that the memory of pain we caused is much stronger to us than in the memories of those who suffered the pain, if we have taken steps to make things right.  I have spoken to my children at various times about the events that live in my memory and they assure me that either they have no remembrance of the events or that they are forgiven.  If others can forgive me, I should be able to do the same and let those painful memories go.  Not as if they never happened, but as if they are no longer a focal point in my past.

I’m not an artist, but I love paintings.  I enjoy watching artists at work.  They take dead, monotonous colors and, putting those individual colors onto a drab canvas, they blend and draw until a scene takes shape.  Have you ever seen an artist who has made a mistake?  They don’t throw away the canvas.  They don’t get a rag and wipe away the error.  They don’t even deny the existence of the flaw, but they use it constructively instead.  They blend the erroneous stroke into the painting, working in other colors and shades.  Before you know it, an expert couldn’t point out the errant stroke.  The finished work of art still includes the error, perhaps a raft of them, but its beauty is unmarred; instead incorporating those mistakes into the tableau, the completed picture.

That’s how life is.  Regrets and all, we take life as it comes, acknowledging our mistakes and sins.  As we build and repair relationships, the problems fade into the whole fabric, becoming in some ways, part of its beauty.  Not that our angry words and selfish actions are beautiful, but the whole has beauty because of grace, and forgiveness, and second chances to get it right.

No regrets?  Ha!  I have lots of those.  There will undoubtedly be more.  But I also have the joy of seeing those regrets fade into the background when we are forgiven and move forward to face the challenges of life.

Perhaps, it’s not the way I would have preferred, but it will do.

“To err is human, to forgive, Divine.”
(Alexander Pope~English poet~1688-1744)

“To err is human, but when the eraser wears out ahead of the pencil, you’re overdoing it.”
(Josh Jenkins)

Gateways

~ Paul Phillips ~ 4 Comments

“Honey, that old gate is getting really bad.  Do you think we could get it fixed soon?”  The Lovely Lady’s voice had taken on an exasperated tone, so I knew better than to ask my stock questions in response.  “We?  Do you have a mouse in your pocket?”  No, this one required a response with a tiny bit more tact, so I replied, “It’s a nice afternoon.  I think I’ll take a stab at it today.”

The big gate sits between the front sidewalk of the music store and our backyard, so it gets a good bit of traffic.  I was sure ten years ago when it was installed that it would be trouble.  The sidewalk is really too wide for a single gate, but in the interest of aesthetics, one was built to span the entire width.  Now, after a decade of weather, falling trees, and ice storms…to say nothing of the people who wander through at odd intervals, the wood structure is tired.  However, it is much too important a point of ingress and egress to let fall into disuse (it is the entry for all of our back door friends), so I attempted a repair to extend the life of the swinging fence closure.  I must have been at least partially successful, because tonight, the Lovely Lady came in after covering the flowers to keep off the frost which is promised and told me that the gate was working much better, to which I replied, “Now, aren’t you glad we fixed it today?”  I find I’m much braver after taking care of responsibilities than before.

For some reason, it was a day for gates.  Well, actually…a day for gateways.  I worked for awhile this afternoon on a different type of gateway.  We have an e-commerce website, through which our customers may purchase products online using credit and debit cards.  To do this, our card processor requires us to maintain a relationship with a company called a “gateway”.  You see, we sell products.  That’s one side of the fence.  The card processor accepts the payment for the products.  That’s the other side of the fence.  But, to get from one side to the other, a gateway is required.  In this example, the gateway is another company that is the “middle-man” between our web store and the credit card processor, facilitating movement of the payment from the shopping cart on our site to the processor, who then deposits the money in our checking account (minus, of course, a little chunk from each transaction).  The gateway is a mutually necessary intermediary, set there to control the flow of information and money.  We can’t get along without it.  As I dealt with some mandatory changes to our gateway system this afternoon, I couldn’t avoid the realization that, here I was, mending gates again.

And, as normal, I also can’t help but harken back (that’s still a good phrase, isn’t it?) to my childhood days.  Frequently, we would help Mr. Cox move his cattle from one of his fields to another, trailing the thirty or forty bovine creatures out of one gate and down a country road, bordered on one side by an irrigation canal and on the other with wild brushland.  Cactus and mesquite trees made up most of the brush.  We only had to keep watch on the brush side of the road, since there was no chance the cows would be crossing the canal on the opposite side.  About two, maybe three miles away, there was another field surrounded by barbed wire (“bob wire”, we called it).  It had a gate, through which all the stubborn creatures had to be shoe-horned, so they could then spread out onto the better grazing awaiting them there.  The gate…Ah, there was a problem.  I remember on one of these semi-annual treks, that I was to open the gate before the impatient herders and their charges reached it.  It didn’t happen.

You have to understand “bob wire” fences.  They are cheap and effective, but the same men who save money by putting up the barbed wire can’t stand to waste money on an expensive gate.  The result of this thrift is a gate made of three strands of barbed wire with a gnarled post on one end that isn’t really attached to anything else.  It is held in place (and therefore, the strands of barbed wire are suspended where they need to be) by sitting in a loop of wire just above the ground and with another loop at the top, which must be lifted over the post.  After that loop is lifted, the gate may be dragged out of the way, opening the lane for the cattle, or tractor, or pickup truck to go through.  Sounds easy, right?  Lift a loop of wire.  What you have to remember is that the three strands of barbed wire are stretched tight, creating a pretty hefty amount of pressure of the post against the loop.  Lifting the loop entails putting even greater pressure on that wire gate to overcome the tension on the loop, allowing it to slide up and over the post.  Imagine my chagrin, as I struggled with the “putting greater pressure” part of that equation, to watch the cattle and herders pile up around the gate, awaiting my success, which never arrived.  I strove mightily, but made no headway.  My humiliation was complete as old Mr. Cox, in his sixties by then, came beside me and said, “You’ve got to put a little more oomph into it, Boy,” and squeezed gently, removing the loop easily.

In spite of that experience, I still like gates.  They lead from one limited area into new, uncharted territory.  While they control who and what is allowed to pass through, they do not deny entry.  If one is supposed to pass through, they grant access.  The lack of a gate, properly situated, causes problems; long treks around instead of through, clambering over fences never intended to be climbed.  Without them, access is denied and frustration levels increase.  When suitably placed and opened in a timely manner, tensions are eased and new vistas open up before us.

I enjoyed the word picture drawn by a college student the other day, as he was interviewing me for a class project.  “You don’t sell music…” he opined,  “…as much as just give people a way to get into music.”  I like that!  I like being a gateway to a world that might otherwise be closed.  I hope it doesn’t end with music, though.  As much as I love that thought, there is much more we are meant to do.  All of us have the potential to be gateways.  Gateways to all kinds of good things, as well as bad.  We can lead folks to emotional pain, sadness, and hurt.  Infinitely better than that though, is the possibility that we can lead them to joy, and love, and unity. 

I remember reading John Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” as a child.  How distinctly I recall the image of the Wicket Gate, where Christian enters the King’s Highway.  As he approaches, he is attacked by someone hidden and shooting flaming darts at him.  Not only does the gate open immediately as it should, but a hand is extended and he is quickly pulled inside, out of the fray and danger and onto the path that leads him to his glorious goal.  What a great picture of Grace!

I like gates.  The kind that function as they should.  The one I repaired today will fail again.  Maybe the next time, I’ll remind the Lovely Lady of that “bob wire” gate and see if she can just count her blessings.  Then again…maybe not.

“If you can find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn’t lead to anywhere.”
(Frank A Clark~Syndicated newspaper columnist~1911-1991)

“Enter through the narrow gate, for wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction.  But, small is the gate and narrow is the road that leads to life and only a few find it.”
(Matthew 7:13,14 NIV)

Tandem

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Do you ever have those days when you’ve got it all together?  Everything happens just the way you planned, all your ducks are in a row; in short, you’ve got everything under control.  Yeah, me too…sometimes.  Today wasn’t one of those days.  Oh, I put up a great front; probably even fooled most of the folks who crossed my path, but all day I was aware that I was far from in control.

For some reason, it seems that I’m far more likely to recognize my inadequacies on a daily basis than I once was.  The older I get, the more convinced I find myself that I am not all put together.  I don’t like it, either.  I remember the days of being cocksure, of being almost obnoxious…okay, not almost obnoxious, actually completely obnoxious in my assurance of being right.  If you are one of the ones I ran my steamroller over in those days, I sincerely apologize.  I was young…and immature.  Come to think of it, if it happened recently (and it’s not unlikely)…just immature.  I have warned you before that I am a slow learner.  But, I am slowly learning.

I’m also grateful for second (or sometimes third) chances to get things right.  This afternoon, as I worked in the office, a young lady came into the music store.  The Lovely Lady was there to talk with her.  I heard the voices, but wasn’t really listening.  All I know is that in a moment, the Lovely Lady was at the window asking if I wanted to buy a particular band instrument.  My immediate reaction was rude and unthinking.  “No!  You know we don’t buy that brand of instrument.  Besides that, it’s weeks after the time for us to sell it.  We’ll have it until next school year!”  I told you yesterday of our predicament with taxes and inventory and I was not about to let that happen again.  This was the start of the new me, the tough, disciplined me.  My mind was preoccupied with my own problems, so I completely missed the look on the Lovely Lady’s face as I replied roughly.  She however, didn’t fail to miss the look on the young lady’s face at the counter.  The disappointed young lady picked up her treasure, which had been her last chance to get the money she needed to meet an important deadline, and headed dejectedly out the door.

The Lovely Lady’s head was back at the window instantly.  “Couldn’t we give her something?  Twenty dollars?”  “Does she need it?” I asked stupidly (Duh!).  “She really does,” came the quick answer.  Okay, I’ll admit it.  I’m slow.  I know that ordinarily the question regarding the purchase of such an instrument would never have come to me in the first place if she didn’t think we needed to step up.  She wanted to give me a chance to do the right thing without being prodded.  But today I was tied up in my own problems.  Today, I thought I was the one who needed help.  By this time though, a light was starting to glow.  We needed to act quickly.  “Well, stop her!”  I said immediately.  Called back in from her car, the young lady was astounded with the unexpected gift.  Well, it was certainly unexpected after my initial reaction!  And, my Lovely Lady had the opportunity to remind her that it would be her turn the next time to share a blessing with someone else who needed it.

I’m already in enough trouble as it is for divulging this episode to you, so I’ll not compound my problems by getting mushy.  However, I will point out that on the days when I’m not already at my best, there is often someone else nearby who helps me to become my best.  There’s not a single one of us who can’t use that help once in awhile…or, if you’re like me, frequently.

Flawless performances pulled off in real life are seldom accomplished by a solo act.  Sure, there are times when I have to step up myself and get it right without prodding.  But more often, I’m thankful for the tag-team approach that allows me to step back from my snap decisions and take a second look.  I’ve said it before and this won’t be the last time I write it…I’m thankful for second chances – to get a  bad decision right, to make amends, to say the right words that help erase the stupid ones. 

Tomorrow is, in fact, another day; another chance to get it all together.  Lessons learned today can only help and she’ll still be at my side, so I’m good.  May you all be so blessed.

“…but you’ll look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.”
(“Daisy Bell”~popular American song~composed in 1892 by Harry Dacre)

“But, pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up.”
(Ecclesiastes 4:10b)

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)