JUST HELPING OUT

 4487

On a crisp October evening in 1994, John F. Kennedy Jr. walked into a small Italian restaurant in lower Manhattan and did something that the owner, Giovanni Russo, said he'd never forget—when he saw that every table was full and a young waitress was clearly overwhelmed and on the verge of tears during her first night on the job, John quietly asked if he could help bus tables until things calmed down. Giovanni later told the New York Times that he tried to politely refuse, saying 'Mr. Kennedy, you're a guest here, please sit and I'll find you a table,' but John just smiled, rolled up his sleeves, and said, 'I worked in a restaurant during law school and I remember how terrifying the first night is—let me help.' What makes this story so achingly beautiful is that John spent the next forty-five minutes clearing dishes, refilling water glasses, and cracking jokes with the flustered waitress named Maria Sanchez to help calm her nerves, and when the dinner rush finally died down, he refused Giovanni's offer of a free meal and instead left a hundred-dollar tip with a note that read, 'For Maria—you're doing great, and it gets easier, I promise.' Maria, who went on to become a restaurant manager herself, kept that note framed in every restaurant she worked in for the next twenty-five years, and she told a reporter in 2004 that 'Mr. Kennedy taught me that night that real class isn't about where you sit—it's about who you're willing to stand beside when things get hard.' What Giovanni remembered most was John saying as he left, 'My mom always told me that how you treat people when nobody important is watching tells you everything about who you really are.' He reminds us that true character shows up in the small, unseen moments when we choose service over status.

Author Unknown

SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

 4486

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint. 

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

I'LL REMEMBER YOU

4485

I drove up to Dollar Tree this morning, as I needed to pick up some greeting cards. (Just prior to each new month, I check my computer files for all my family, and friends who have upcoming birthdays, and anniversaries).

 

Having finished shopping, including a couple of unplanned purchases, (such as cheesecake and paper plates), I took my place in a long line preparing to check out. Just then, another cashier stepped behind another checkout lane, and announced it was open.

 

With this, a young man, apparently Filipino or Indonesian, encouraged me to go first, and the two of us took our places in that particular checkout lane.

 

As the cashier began to scan my greeting cards, and other items, I turned to the young fella, and said,

 

"So, you let the old guy go first."

 

Of course, he smiled.

 

I continued.

 

"You know, one day you'll be as old as me, and I'll be long gone."

 

And with this, the young stranger said something which was so much like the sort of thing I have been known to say in similar circumstances.

 

"Well, when I reach your age, I'll remember this day, and I won't forget you."

 

You would have to know me, but his unexpected assurance, (as John Wesley might have said), "warmed my heart."

 

(Yeah, it did)

 

I'm a big advocate of leaving something behind, whether it be ancestry resources, or family photos, or something a bit more intangible, such as kind words, or the spiritual impact we exercise on another human being.

 

And, of course, my momentary friend's words indicated that I had unwittingly left one more thing behind; (his memory of our interaction in the checkout lane at Dollar Tree in January of 2025). And, in essence, he had given me the gift of being remembered, and living on, as it were, long past my mortal homegoing.

 

And now, I thanked the young man.

 

"I appreciate your kind words. They mean so much to me."

 

(and)

 

"I'm Bill. Remember old Bill."

 

(and)

 

"What's your name?"

 

He spoke for the final time.

 

"I'm Lee."

 

As the cashier handed me the bag containing my purchases, I smiled, and said,

"Thank you, Lee. Thank you so much."

 

I'm doubtful I will ever see my young friend again, but I am confident he will remember our momentary interaction; long after I have gone on to my reward.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

(The foregoing remembrance occurred and was written on January 20, 2025, Inauguration Day of the 47^th President of the United States of America, as well as Martin Luther King Day)

MY MONKEY & ME

 4484

I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed thousand piece puzzle. 

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD 

*Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage, I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

 

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. ( not sure the time of year), but when we came home we never saw him again. I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(And in regard to my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey love and care…)

“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too.”

(Kim Frye)

“I and two other guys, all around 15 in approx. 1970 out of Bartow hired on for the Summer at that Caladium Farm w/ Mr. Frye, pulling weeds and cutting bulbs. There was a mischievous Spider Monkey (actually a squirrel monkey) there and if I recollect correctly, a sort of tropical forest or the sorts, back behind the Main Shed. Also if correct, there was a fairly old Lady who dipped snuff and had worked there for many years who could out do us youngsters. I think her son was there too.

(Stephen McWhorter)

THE TIME TRAVELING PASSENGER LINER

 4483

The passenger steamer SS Warrimoo was quietly knifing its way through the waters of the mid-Pacific on its way from Vancouver to Australia. The navigator had just finished working out a star fix and brought Captain John DS. Phillips, the result.

 

The Warrimoo's position was LAT 0º 31' N and LONG 179 30' W. The date was 31 December 1899. "Know what this means?" First Mate Payton broke in, "We're only a few miles from the intersection of the Equator and the International Date Line". Captain Phillips was prankish enough to take full advantage of the opportunity for achieving the navigational freak of a lifetime.

He called his navigators to the bridge to check & double check the ship's position. He changed course slightly so as to bear directly on his mark. Then he adjusted the engine speed.

The calm weather & clear night worked in his favor. At mid-night the SS Warrimoo lay on the Equator at exactly the point where it crossed the International Date Line! The consequences of this bizarre position were many:

The forward part (bow) of the ship was in the Southern Hemisphere & in the middle of summer.
The rear (stern) was in the Northern Hemisphere & in the middle of winter.

The date in the aft part of the ship was 31 December 1899.
In the bow (forward) part it was 1 January 1900.

This ship was therefore not only in:
Two different days,
Two different months,
Two different years,
Two different seasons

But in two different centuries - all at the same time!

(Author Unknown)

AN ENCOUNTER WITH GRETEL

 4482

I pedal five miles a day five days a week. As a rule, I go out at 4 or 5am. (“O Dark City”). Over the past few years, I have written numerous stories about my experiences on my morning treks. And I can tell you, I have experienced some pretty amazing and unexpected things.

Without going into detail here (since I have previously done so) counting the following story, I have alluded to five such situations which occurred on the same city block; just a few hundred yards from my home.

This morning, as I was completing my five mile trek, I noticed a figure approaching me on the sidewalk. (I only ride on the sidewalk). As the person got closer, I realized the individual was a young lady of perhaps 30. As we neared one another, I pushed my bike light down towards the concrete, quit pedaling, and pushed my bike along with my left foot.

“Gretel” seemed unsure on which side of the sidewalk she would continue to walk, but finally chose the left side. As a result, I moved to my left, as well. Thirty feet, twenty feet and…

“Hello.”

I replied in kind.

“Hello.”

And now, I noticed she would throw her right foot out forward, and 45 degrees to the right side, and she would take a smaller forward step with her left foot. I immediately surmised Gretel was inebriated.

Now, as I passed her, she said,

“Happy Thanksgiving!”

And now, I thought to myself…

“She doesn’t sound drunk.”

(and)

“Perhaps she is simply disabled.”

And as before, I replied in kind.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

I had pedaled another ten feet when I heard the young lady say,

“I wonder if I could ask you a question?”

I looked behind me, and saw that she had stopped walking, and was looking in my direction.

Now, I surmised Gretel was going to ask me for money.

At this point I had a decision to make. Would I turn my bike around, and pedal back to her, or would I continue pedaling?

I chose the second of the two options, and I arrived home five minutes later.

I have regretted my choice.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

STAY ENCOURAGED

 4481

I was a member of the U.S. Air Force at the time, and my wife and I were attending a large church in Tampa.

And as is the case with many evangelical churches, Pastor Matheny occasionally brought in guest speakers. However, this time around the guest evangelist was, to say the least, different than all the rest who proceeded him.

Other than his Mississippi accent, Rev. Brown possessed one particular trait which separated him from every other evangelist with whom I’d been acquainted in my (at that time) 20+ years of life on this planet. (And to be sure, I’ve never seen that trait recreated in the almost half century since).

Now and then, as the good reverend reached a point in his sermon which he thought worthy of a figurative exclamation mark, he would throw out his right leg at a 45 degree angle. I suppose this occurred all of six or eight times during the course of every 45 minute message, and which he faithfully performed throughout the one week series of revival meetings.

The last night of his meetings finally arrived, and as his final sermon concluded, the audience was invited to ‘q up’ and wish the evangelist ‘God speed;’ as he prepared to travel to his next engagement. And although I have stood behind numerous pulpits and counseled thousands, I still possess a bit of introvertism I seem to bring to certain situations. However, this was obviously not one of them, since I had especially enjoyed the evangelist’ messages, and his strange little mannerism struck me both humorous and unique.

As the line ebbed, and I brought up the rear, I reached out to shake the good preacher’s hand, and he reciprocated. And looking me directly in the eye, Rev. Brown said something no one had said to me before, (nor since).

…“Stay Encouraged.”

I have previously written about those people whom you meet once in a lifetime, but whose impact lingers for as long.

The little waitress in California named Jamie who bore an uncanny resemblance to the television character, “Anne of Green Gables,” and whose photo my wife and I procured before departing the premises.

Bob, a mental patient in the same facility as my daughter, who sadly informed me that “nobody comes to see me here. Not my daddy, not my mama, not my family” (and) “Would you hug me?” (Which I proceeded to do right there in front of God and everybody).

Gary, a college student and summer hiker on the Appalachian Trail, whom my dad invited to share our North Carolina campsite, and with whom we wiled away the hours prior to retiring for the night.

The unidentified woman who approached me and a couple of other National Guardsmen, as we stepped out of a local McDonald’s in the Homestead area of Florida; after the devastation of Hurricane Andrew. Our M-16’s hung from our shoulders, ‘Jane’ (as in Jane Doe) stepped up to me, wrapped her arms firmly around me, and exclaimed, “You guys don’t know how much we appreciate you being here for us,” and quickly stepped away.

I cannot begin to guess what became of Rev. Brown, (nor for that matter, Jamie, Bob, Gary or Jane) and yet I am the better for, as brief as our passing was, having known them.

God knows how many times I have reflected upon those two words which the evangelist bequeathed to me, how I have found succor in them, and which I have countless times offered to others in my various and sundry roles as Counselor, Professor, Minister and Friend.

There’s a wonderful verse in my favorite book of scripture which has as its core a similar implication.

“But day by day, and as long as today shall last continue to encourage one another.” (Hebrews 3:13)

We live in difficult times; times in which many of us are bowed down with doubt, discouragement and despair. I like to believe that I have exercised my role of encourager well, and that I have offered my clients, students, parishioners and friends much the same thing someone once offered me.

Life is too brief and too fraught with pain to withhold the healing balm of our words and actions.

Stay Encouraged.

by Bill McDonald, PhD