music store

Staying focused

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cleanliness is next to impossible!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On working while impaired…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m peddling as fast as I can!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It was one of those days.  As I rolled out this morning (well, yesterday as I write this), I actually thought that it would be a great day.  A Superman day.  You know,  a tights-and-capes, leap-tall-buildings-with-a-single-bound, no-challenge-too-big-to-conquer kind of day.  I’m trying to comprehend what went wrong, but can’t really put my finger on any one event.  I think the beginning of the trouble must have been the running out of milk thing.  Oh, and no instant breakfast, even if there had been a drop of milk in the house.  Ah well, no matter…Onward and upward!  There are damsels in distress to kill and horrible giants to save.  Wait!  That didn’t come out right.  You see what happens when you don’t have a good breakfast?

I won’t bore you with the details of the day, but the best I can do is to say that the damsels didn’t want to be saved and the giants were notable in their absence.  Have you ever noticed that on the really bad days, it’s not usually anything earth-shaking that causes the most disturbance?  Big problems, I can tackle head-on and I know when the task is finished.  It’s the insignificant issues, those little things that wouldn’t merit a second glance if they came in their proper turn to annoy you, that make your carefully ordered world come crashing down when they arrive in droves, as they tend to do so frequently.

My schedule didn’t gel as it should have, must-do jobs were interrupted by trivial phone calls (probably not so to the caller),  my carefully guarded morning marred by  disturbances (deliveries, repairmen, etc.), and not one objective that I needed desperately to reach was completed on time.  A thirty-minute job stretched out to an hour and a half, with other deadlines looming.  One repair which had been assessed by my expert eye as a “snap”, turned out to be just that, literally, with no less than three parts breaking in the process of disassembling the instrument.  Indefatigable salesmen, of late a rare breed, came out of the woodwork today, undoubtedly having been apprised of the situation by Lex Luthor. Having missed my customary morning repast of milk and instant breakfast, it was entirely fitting that the full line-up of the day kept me from my lunch until almost 4:30 in the afternoon.  Needless to say, my PB&J sandwich was eaten standing up

On this day, the avalanche of customers, vendors, and inanimate objects (which seemed to be imbued with life), proved to be too much for this superman.  Not quite so bad as kryptonite, but more like someone standing on your cape all day long.  By the middle of the afternoon, I was beaten and whining like a dog in a thunderstorm, but I persevered, running in place until the lights were turned out and the door locked against the perpetrators.

Come to think of it, I still sound like I’m whining.  Any of you reading this have had equally bad days, marred by worse problems, and probably at a heavier velocity than mine.  We all have them.  Some of us hold up better than others, but we get through them.  Better times lie ahead and we know it.  This evening, the Lovely Lady agreed to a quiet meal at a local eatery and I found, as we sat and talked, enjoying each other’s company and the good food, the epic struggle of the day faded into non-importance.  We’ve seen worse days and come through in fine shape. 

I have to remember not to start believing my own hype.  I’m not Superman and can’t leap buildings in a single bound, but neither is there any kryptonite that can cripple me.  When I believe either the hype or the scare-tactics, I set myself up for an unnecessary fall.  What is true and not hype at all, is that God allows us to develop skills and He gifts us in various and unique ways.  All we have to do is to be faithful in using that which is given to us.  Bad days and good days are guaranteed, but in the long haul, what counts is our commitment to the goal.  Hang in there!

Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful.
(1 Corinthians 4:2 NIV)

Give us this day our daily…Candy?

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Every weekday afternoon, like clockwork, they arrive.  The walkers, those youngsters whose parents haven’t yet succumbed to the fear that our society has instilled in most.  We call the religious extremists from the east “terrorists”, yet the more subtle terror that has changed our whole lifestyle has come from inside our culture: the bullies, the child molesters, even the estranged spouses.  For fear of these constitutionally-protected terrorists, most parents don’t dare allow their children to even walk home from school anymore.   

Yet every school day, here they come.  Not as many as there used to be, but they push their way through the front door to cluster around the front counter.  What draws them?  No, they’re not interested in making music.  Well…except for banging on the drums a few times, or flicking their fingers across the strings on a cool, heavy-metal guitar that draws their eyes.  But that doesn’t hold their interest long on any given day.  They don’t even want to look at the neat toys that all guitarists crave, the multi-effects boxes, the digital tuners, or even the all-important guitar picks.  No, what brings them in every day is the container on the counter.  Free suckers.  Cheap candy, purchased from whichever store is offering the lowest price this week.  Dum-Dums, mostly…if the very name doesn’t invite a comment about the state of education today, nothing does, but I’ll rise above the temptation and move on.

We talk briefly, reminding them that the trash can is where we throw the wrappers, not in the parking lot.  Bored, slightly irritated faces look back at us.  They’ve heard it before, but most of them readily respond.  They want the ritual to continue, ad infinitum, simply because you can’t beat a free sucker everyday, so the easy compensation of compliance with our silly request is paid.  Then, with a “see you tomorrow,” they all rush out the door, to spend a few moments jumping the rock garden next door before they renew their trek for home or on to the Boy’s & Girl’s club down the street.

As the ruckus subsides, we smile and go about our regular work, sometimes answering the anticipated question, “Why do you give them candy?  They’re not going to buy anything.”  After being in business for 25 years, we’ve figured out that profit is only a small part of why we show up here everyday.  Even if we didn’t know that these are the same kids who will appear with their parents in a few years to buy the band instruments, the guitars and amplifiers, and even the banjos or mandolins, we’d still give them the candy.  We like kids!  Many of these youngsters don’t know any adults, except for the ones who tell them to stand up straight, stay in line, and get their pencils out for a test today.  We want to be a friendly face, just somebody who they enjoy seeing everyday.  Maybe they’ll even see us in the grocery store and point us out to their parents.  “Hey, those are the people who give me candy after school.”  Kids need to see that adults aren’t their enemies or people to be afraid of, but in the right circumstance, we can be friends.

I like to say that we’re doing what Jesus asked us to do, when he said to give “cups of cold water to the little ones”.  It’s not exactly the same as cold water on a hot, dusty day, but the idea is the same.  Kindness seems to be the exception, rather than the rule in our society, and this is an easy means for us to remedy that in a  small way.

The annual Beggar’s Night is coming up this week and I will freely admit that I’m not an enthusiast.  My general perception of the process follows:  Greedy children will coerce fearful homeowners to give them handfuls of sweets, with the threat of vandalism unless the treat is forthcoming.  That’s an oversimplification, but the result is the same.  Every years millions of dollars worth of candy are stuffed into bags and then into the children’s mouths, mostly to the benefit of the vendors of said candy.  We watch as children (whose parents could easily afford the candy themselves) are carted to various neighborhoods to ring the doorbells of strangers and beg over and over for something that they have absolutely no need for.

I really am not an angry old miser, but gifts should be bestowed because the benefactor has a desire to give freely, not because he or she is forced to it.  I love giving to children, but when they have the expectation, they’re far less likely to be truly grateful.  It’s kind of like Grace.  We are surprised by the magnanimous, undeserved and lavish gift that we can only thank God for.  No payment, no coercion on our part could ever have opened the floodgates of Heaven, yet freely, unstintingly the gift comes to us.  How could we be ungrateful?

I know there are many parents who enjoy the holiday to allow their children to dress up and go to a few, carefully selected friend’s homes, but that’s not what I’m talking about.  It seems that in a very real way, the night actually takes on the nature of its reputation in some locales as “devil’s night”.  So, I’m not a fan and may just find a way, later this week, to hang out where I can’t be found until the day (and night) is over.

But, on the subject of giving freely, one of our good friends has a habit of showing up where she’s needed without warning.  A loaf of bread, the components for a complete meal, or just some flowers, find their way into the place before you know what’s going on.  This is the way that lives are changed, and sagging spirits are inspired to soar again.  Over the years in our store, we’ve had the joy of serving kids who grew up to be parents and then grandparents.  Hopefully, we’ve had some small part in forming who they and their children have become.  You may not choose to give suckers, or bread, or flowers, but there are opportunities in every person’s life to do small deeds which reap large rewards in time.  I hope you’ll look for them and do something about it.

While we try to teach our children all about life,
Our children teach us what life is all about.
(Angela Schwindt, published in Reader’s Digest Quotable Quotes 1997)

Doesn’t the bad guy wear the black hat?

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

“Eighty dollars for the guitar and twenty for the amplifier.  That sound all right to you?”  Once again, I’m bargaining with a young man for an instrument that I don’t really want, but he needs to sell.  He’s the third person in my store today with something to sell, not because they’ve decided to quit playing music, but because money is tight and they need to come up with the cash to take care of “living expenses”.  The mom with her toddler who was here earlier had a similar problem, but she also brought me a dilemma, along with the guitar case and guitar shaped object (GSO) she carried.  You see, I’ve promised never to put any of that brand of instruments on my rack again, simply because I don’t think they’re quality guitars.  Oh, a few of the specimens are okay, but overall, they seem to have a multitude of inadequacies, which I cannot overlook and will not foist off on my customers.  What to do?

As you might expect, a few dollars lighter in the bank account, the business now owns this cool looking guitar, which sports a facsimile of the semi-semi-noteworthy guitarist/pitchman in his flat black bolero hat, who hawks his inferior wares on your television set.  I’m not a fan.  He claims to play the guitars he sells, but if the secondhand examples which I have seen are any indication, my guess is that most mediocre guitarists wouldn’t keep one of them for long, much less a professional, such as he claims to be.  I’m not surprised to find that his claims to fame (e.g., student of one of the greatest classical guitarists in our time, Andres Segovia and endorsed by the same) are disputed by many  experts in the field.  I’m even appalled by the price people fork out for a barely adequate instrument, only to find that it has plunged in value from the moment it left the warehouse.

But, the absolute affront, in my consideration, is that the man’s real name (first and last) is actually the same as my given name, Stephen Paul.  I might be able to forgive the man for selling a cheap product for too much money, but to have the same name on top of that, well…Words fail me.

Having wandered far afield, I’ll make my way back toward my original subject and say that I’m faced almost daily with judgment calls like this one and many which are more confounding.  One gentleman came in with a similar dilemma (a guitar brand that was taboo) and then added to that by telling me that the tight spot he was in came because of a late night visit to the casino after imbibing a bit too much alcohol.  I’m still ruminating the wisdom of my decision as I also ponder how to market the other GSO that now sits in my back hallway.  If any of you readers have the solution to either problem, I’d love to be let in on the secret.

But, my real target tonight is integrity.  I mention the huckster to set the stage.  This play of life in which we are all acting often surprises me, sometimes in a wonderful, positive way, but often recently, with gloomy and unfortunate situations.  The gentleman I first mentioned who had the guitar and amplifier to sell, quickly agreed to my price.  One hundred dollars was fine with him.  As I prepared to pay him, I happened to think that the wholesale blue-book might show the amplifier to be worth a little more than my offer, so I suggested that I should check the value.  As I started my search, I heard, without it really registering, the muttered words, “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to pay too much.”  Then, I found the amp model in the list and noticed that it recommended paying thirty dollars for this particular unit.  I returned to the customer and told him that I would pay him ten dollars more than originally agreed upon and his reaction was one of complete surprise.  He had expected a reduction in my offer, not an increase.  After he received payment, he shook my hand vigorously, and thanked me profusely for being fair with him.

As he left, I was struck by the incongruity of his muttered statement as I searched for the price, with his effusive praise for my fairness in the transaction.  Why should he expect that I was going to back out of our agreement to his detriment?   Was it just a natural cynicism or was it a reaction programmed by experience?  Isn’t it true that in our society, we expect to be cheated and taken advantage of?  The huckster sitting center stage and strumming the inferior product, that is less in quality than it is touted to be, is the rule (or at least the perceived rule) and not the exception that it should be.

We are pleasantly taken aback by a business or individual who is honest and forthright, while acting almost dispassionate about chicanery.  This ought not to be.  Integrity should be the standard in our dealings with each other.  It’s about time that the players who are center stage in this play should be the heroes and not the villains.

I have a favorite car lot with which I try to do business whenever I’m looking for a vehicle.  The reason?  Several years ago, they sold my father-in-law a car.  No, not a car, a lemon!  For a full year, he paid for repair after repair and finally took the car back to trade in on a different one.  Upon hearing of his experience with the vehicle, the owner of the car lot gave him, in trade, not only the full price he had paid originally, but all of the additional amount he had spent on repairs in the intervening time.  Now that’s integrity!  And that’s the kind of business I want to trade with.

Ten dollars difference.  That’s all it took for me to act with integrity today.  Sometimes honesty costs dearly and other times, it’s as easy as just doing the right thing.  Both of them, the large and small choices, are what make up a life of integrity.  “Choose you this day whom you will serve…”



“No amount of ability is of the slightest avail without honor”
(Andrew Carnegie)

Let your yay! be yay!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

She meant it as a compliment, but twenty-some years later, I can still get a little annoyed when I think about it.  Why is that?  What is it about words that makes us carry them around in a niche at the back of our minds and take them out sporadically, only to founder in the bad feelings they evoke?  I’ve decided in my adult years that I disagree vehemently with the old children’s doggerel that we heckled each other with, years ago…”Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”  Since I know there are human beings in atrocious conditions that I could never comprehend, I don’t want to this to be too sweeping of a statement, but it seems to me that bones will heal. Conversely, I’m also convinced that the pain of hurtful words may linger for a lifetime.  If hers had actually been intended as hurtful, I might be writing this article from a completely different perspective.

When I tell you what she said, you’ll laugh at how thin-skinned I was.  I really never was angry at her, but it just irked me to hear it.  As I contemplate more, I think that the reason the comment comes back to me now is more about the truth (or potential for truth), than it is about the hurt. As I age, I find that I am examining the things I do more and more to be sure that I am leaving a legacy.  No, not the same kind of legacy that Presidents and public figures seem to be so obsessed with.  This is not about fame or public honor, but about the knowledge that I’ve fulfilled my purpose in life.  I really don’t want to get to a point where I look back and decide that I’ve wasted all the opportunities that I’ve been blessed with, especially after it’s too late to redeem the time.

What did she say?  Well, over the years, I have had the privilege of preaching at a number of services at my church. On the occasion I’m reminiscing about today, this elderly saint heard me preach for the first time.  I’m sure it was just that she hadn’t pictured me as a preacher, or even a public speaker, but as I greeted individuals at the end of the service, she gripped my hand, smiled sweetly, and blurted, “What are you doing wasting your time in that dinky little music store?”  I stuttered out a reply, which must have been satisfactory, since the dear lady remained my friend until she passed away some years later.

She meant it as a compliment!  She wanted me to know how excited she was to have heard me preach!  I think she was even saying that I had done a good job.  But all I heard was, “You’ve wasted your whole life doing something completely worthless!”  How do you deal with that? 

The Lord knew I needed an answer to that question because a short time later (a few weeks, maybe), I was speaking with my Dad on the telephone and he asked if we could pray before we said goodbye.  As he prayed, I heard the words, “…and bless Paul in the ministry you’ve given him there in the music store.” 

Wow!  How’s that for a contrast?  On the one hand, the thought that preaching would be so much more worthwhile than the profession I was in, and on the other hand, the statement that we are ministers wherever we find ourselves in life.  I’ve got to tell you, the light bulb went on!  I was put in this very spot for a purpose!  I don’t have to reproach myself for missed educational opportunities, or for my past lack of achievement in professional endeavors.  I can make a difference right here, right now.

My dad used to love this hokey little song that our choir sang many years ago.  I can’t remember the whole tune.  I don’t even have all the words at the tip of my tongue, but the main thought was, “Bloom, Bloom, Bloom where you’re planted!” (Told you it was hokey!)  And, that’s what I’m doing. You may think that I’m really just a bloomin’ idiot, but I’m pretty sure that the Good Lord wants us to buckle down and work right where we are.  He may move us somewhere else, but we do the same thing wherever we land…Settle in and bless those around us!

Oh!  And, let’s be careful how we compliment others.  A backdoor compliment isn’t how we bless them at all.  It’s more like the sting of nettles than the sweet aroma of a beautiful flower.  And it’s a sting that might be felt for a long, long time.

For he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of waters,
which brings forth fruit in its season,
and whose leaf also shall not wither.
Everything he does shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:3)

Something’s rotten in the den, Mark!

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’m fascinated by odors.  Wow!  Is that a strange thing to admit or what?  I hope you won’t get the wrong idea and think that I go around sniffing the air all the time.  I do have some odd habits, but the Gollum act is not included in the panoply of weird symptoms you will observe in me.  It’s just that I seem to notice aromas even more now than I used to.  Perhaps it’s because odors have such an evocative effect on the brain.

I smell bacon and eggs, and I’m back in the breakfast nook at Grandma’s, waiting for an early morning meal after a Friday night spent at her house.  I catch a whiff of Pine Sol and I can still see the bathrooms at Crockett Elementary School where long ago, I spent 6 long years (in the school, not the bathrooms).  I know, that number of years just speeds by for us as adults, but honestly, don’t you remember waiting for the final bell at 3:30 every day?  The last five minutes were as interminable as any hour that came before in the day.

One of the most vivid odors I smell on a regular basis is that of burning bone.  I frequently have to cut bone pieces for guitar parts, such as bridge saddles and fingerboard nuts.  As the Dremel cutting wheel spins along the surface, the odor emanates in billows from the material, filling the atmosphere in the music store.  Along with it’s completely obnoxious stench, which is suffocating in its nature, I have to suffer with the image of sitting in the dentist’s chair while he drills in preparation for a filling.  You folks who’ve had cavities, you know what I’m talking about.  It’s all peppermint and flavored rinses until, BOOM!, that stench fills your mouth, throat, and nasal passages and you start to think that maybe a pureed diet wouldn’t be so bad after all.  My better half has requested that the bone cutting take place after business hours, when I’m working by myself.  Unfortunately, in my situation, although “misery loves company”, apparently that company doesn’t have much of an urge to consort with misery.

I’ll leave some of the other odors to your imagination, just to be sure that we don’t get a PG rating for this missive.  Suffice it to say that I don’t work in a sterile atmosphere.  Evidently, varying opinions exist regarding the satisfactory standard for cleanliness in public, so the levels of pungency also vary greatly from time to time.  Sometimes, I find it difficult to even concentrate on the task at hand, much less to remember that all of God’s creatures deserve respect, but that’s what has to be accomplished.  Odd, isn’t it, when you really consider the idea?  I’m fairly certain that we assault God’s nostrils with our stench continuously, yet He tolerates the smell and even calls us His sons and daughters and holds us close.  So, I work on, careful to show respect and honor, even as I recoil from the emissions!  If He can stand it for all time, I figure I can deal with it for a few minutes.

As I consider all these aromas, while there are some that I think I could do without, I’m struck by how amazing is the world we’ve been given to live in.  Some odors warn us of danger, like solvents, or natural gas, and burning food (never happens at my house!).  Others lure us into situations we should avoid.  No I’m not thinking about perfumes and scented candles (although that could be problematic, too).  I’m thinking about the delightful aroma of baking cookies, a perfectly cooked roast beef, or any number of foods that, while quite pleasant to experience, leave their manifestation for years of discomfort to come.  What an amazing assortment of signals and informative details are brought to mind by the simplest of smells wafted gently (or not so gently) to our noses everyday.  And, what a drab and dangerous world this would be without this very simple gift.

I’m still fascinated by odors…

But for tonight, I’m headed home and going to bed very soon.  I think I’ll be careful to take my shoes off in the bathroom…

“Best way to get rid of kitchen odors?  Eat out!
(Phyllis Diller)

Ifs, Ands, & Buts

~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

If weekends meant a reprieve for me in any way, I would have been asking, “Is it Friday yet?”, right about four o’clock this afternoon.  Bad day?  That’s like asking if GEICO makes funny commercials.  For disastrous days, this was ranking right up there with the best of them.  Promises I’d made couldn’t be kept because of ineptitude by suppliers, and every order placed by customers had a problem to be chased down and sorted out (okay, not every one, but enough to seem that way).  Even before that, at 4 minutes before opening time, one guy actually had the audacity to blow his horn outside the front door!  Not sure, but it might have been the fellow returning a non-functioning product.  We got that sorted out, only to have him return a few moments later, with the replacement not working!  As the day wore on, a rep from the inept supplier actually had the nerve to lie to me about a shipping date when I was staring right at the shipping record on my computer.  I had opened the doors at 12:00, and by 4:00, I felt it was time to close.  I was done!

But…!  I like that word:  But!  Although it’s a small word, it turns around what came before and gives it a different direction.  It has been a favorite word for me since childhood.  When I was a kid, I used it to argue with everyone in sight.  My big brother said I sounded like a motorboat going, “But,but,but,but,but,but…”   Mom’s phrase was, “You’d argue with a fence post.”  I spent most of a lifetime using the word to give the declarations of others a negative twist, to prove that I was superior.  I wish it were not so, but it is true, nonetheless.  I remain cognizant of my bent to arguing and I strive with the urge constantly, sometimes to emerge victorious and just as often to be humbled by my failure.  The fight goes on…

Tonight though, I put the word to different use.  The day had been horrible, but…!  I love the conversion from the negative to the positive that “but” gives to the sentence, the repentance that marks the turning from darkness to light.  This very dark day had a “but” in the middle of it.  A good friend walked in the front door of my business with the means for me to keep my promise!  I don’t want to be maudlin, but I can think of nothing more encouraging than having friends who rise to the occasion when I cannot.  And, make no mistake, I could not rise.  I had no “outs”, as they say in the game of Poker, but this friend had the very card I needed up his sleeve.  I think he was embarrassed by my gratitude, but I had been drowning and he threw the much needed rope to save me.

The “but” in the middle of the afternoon revived me, and still the day made one more attempt at bringing me back to my knees.  A last minute call from a customer far away ensured a labor intensive job which had to be completed this evening.  Fortunately for me, Thursday evening is always Macaroni and Cheese night at our house, so even the threat of this drudgery wasn’t as crushing at it might have been.  Nevertheless, the discouragement of the day hung on through the meal of comfort food.  After supper, we were off to a benefit concert for some young missionary friends, an appointment that my day had made much less attractive as it wore on.

But…!  (Did I tell you I really like that word?)  What a refreshing time!  We spent the evening visiting with old friends, many of whom we hadn’t seen for a long time.  It was energizing to visit while enjoying the great Bluegrass music (and some good coffee too).  But this time spent among friends, reminiscing, catching up on current happenings, and just enjoying each other, simply reinforced the lesson I learned earlier today;  Self-reliance is desirable.  Skill is to be sought after.  Even fortitude in the face of adversity is laudable.  But this I say without fear of any “but” to follow:  Friends are a gift!  And, I stand firmly with James in the Bible when he states that every good and perfect gift comes from Above.  May we all be blessed throughout our lives with many such gifts!  And may all our bad days be interrupted by the “but” of one of those gifts arriving to redeem the time for us.

“Old friends, Lord, when all my work is done,
Grant my wish and give just one old friend, at least one…
Old friend.”
(from the song “Old Friends” ~ Roger Miller)

A friend is always loyal, and a brother is born to help in time of need.
(Proverbs 17:17 ~ New Living Translation)

Mama says, Stupid is as stupid does…

~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The gorgeous, once-new guitar was neither when I saw it again.  My perfunctory look at the soft case gave the “Cliff’s Notes” version of the full story that would be told when the torn, useless zipper was pulled apart.  The cloth was pock-marked with holes that had white tracks leading to and from them, indicating that moving rocks had played a part in the plot.  As the case was opened, a glance at the owner’s forlorn visage steeled me for the entire horror story.  The pieces tumbled out en masse, leaving only the battered remains of the neck and top in the case.  I have to admit, I had expected a damaged instrument, but I was not prepared for the shattered, splintered mound of debris that gave scant evidence of the once beautiful instrument which had left my shop only weeks before.

Almost tearfully, the story was narrated.  Ready to load the guitar in the trunk and leaning it carefully against the back bumper, the owner moved to the front of the car to hit the trunk release.  An unexpected interruption came and the errand to pop the trunk was forgotten.  Backing out and hearing a strange sound for a few feet brought the horrified recollection of thought, but too late.  A careless moment, a phone call at the wrong time, these had contributed to the early demise of a guitar that normally would have an expected useful life of 20 or more years, but that was gone in the blink of an eye.  And, as sad as the experience is, I guarantee you, this guitar owner will one day find a way to laugh about the disaster.  Will they ever quit regretting it?  Probably not, but they’ll get over it.  It was a sad moment, but the guitar could be replaced and music would flow again, as well as some jokes and good-natured kidding to go along with it.

Probably not so, for the owner of another guitar I was handed a number of years ago.  The man had decided to sell the instrument and was seeking a fair offer.   I looked at the beautiful antique Gibson electric guitar and thought, “What a beauty!”  In top condition, worth about $3000 in today’s dollars, I was excited that I would have a chance to purchase it and make a profit upon resale.  But, as I turned the guitar over, my heart sank.  The back of the guitar told a completely different story than the front.  It was mutilated, with a large, square hole in the middle of the wood surface.  What (or who) could have done such a horrible thing to this superb work of art?

It’s not my vice, so I have no personal experience, but apparently, too much liquor makes you do stupid things.  The sad story was recounted to me by a now, very sober man.  The owner was a guitarist in a local band which played every weekend in a bar.  As happened frequently in those days, there was very little actual pay for musicians, so the bar owner compensated the band with free beers while they played.  Of course, as a result, the quality of the music suffered progressively, but the bar patrons didn’t take any notice, since most of them had also deteriorated in like manner.  On the night of the incident, the guitarist noticed an intermittent problem with the signal from the guitar to the amp and eventually it failed completely.  Access to the pickups was difficult and he didn’t have much time to effect repairs, so he did the only thing his inebriated brain could conceive. He reached into his pocket, took out the greatest tool ever invented and…opened his jackknife and cut a small hole.  Not enough room for his hand, so he cut it bigger.  Still not enough…well you get the picture.  As the story unfolded, I stood with my mouth agape, listening in disbelief that, even in that mental state, anyone could be so witless.

I purchased the guitar, but for a price that was a fraction of what it should have brought.  I’m sorry to say that, like the appraisers on the Antiques Roadshow, I made a point of telling him what it would have brought prior to his senseless mutilation of a fine, fine instrument.  My guess is there will never be a day when this gentleman laughs about his loss.  For some reason, stupidity doesn’t seem to become funny over time, it just seems more stupid.

We all get absent-minded once in awhile, sometimes with disastrous results, but that’s not the same thing as senselessness.  Give me the former any day.

“Life is tough.  It’s tougher when you’re stupid.”
John Wayne