A TRIBUTE TO MY SCOTTISH GRANDFATHER

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Back in 2008, when I and another cousin, Kimberly, meticulously planned a grave marking ceremony for our Scottish immigrant, Revolutionary War ancestor, well, I can tell you we “didn’t miss a beat.” Literally, hundreds of hours were poured into the construction of that ceremony. By the time we finished our figurative blueprint, and the invitations had gone out, it was a regular Rembrandt.

However, I can tell you, readers, that there’s can be a huge difference between a blueprint, and a completed building.

A blueprint is only a theory,

… until the building is raised on the site.

But to return to my story…

November 1, 2008 dawned,

and a couple hundred McDonald descendants appeared (Check)

Each and every one of the planned speakers showed up (Check)

Representatives of the Georgia Sons of the American Revolution in period uniform graced us with their presence (Check)

The still and video photographers were right on time (Check)

And Bagpipers “dressed to the hilt” in kilts (Check)

The Boy Scout troop with their pre-selected bugler filed onto the cemetery grounds (Check)

Why, even Sonny Schroyer, (“Enos” of “The Dukes of Hazzard”) graced us with his presence (No Check required, since his appearance was an unexpected treat). He lives in the area, and counts a couple of my relatives, his friends.

But since too many participants, too much geographical distance, and too much required time precluded a dry run, in the few minutes I had available before the ceremony commenced, I provided my participants a few last minute instructions.

And then it began,

… and then it began to “go wrong.”

Well, to say it went wrong would be a gross exaggeration, since to be fair, there were only a couple of obvious mistakes in an otherwise flawless ceremony. And it goes without saying that when you’re involved with turning blueprints into buildings, any conscientious architect is sensitive about millimeters, turning into feet.

And when I say it went wrong, it was, paradoxically, the one ingredient which should NOT have gone wrong, and in which I might have invested the most confidence.

For when our “seasoned” bagpipers proceeded to “strut their stuff,” (who had, I’d been informed, participated in dozens of such commemorative ceremonies) their kilts and pipes figuratively, (if not literally)

… unraveled at the seams.

“Danny Boy”???

(They might just as well be playing, “Jingle Bells”)

and the (not so) amazing,

“Amazing Grace”

(A tone-deaf nuclear bombardier wearing earmuffs might have paused to shake his head in disbelief).

And I, “Mr. Structure,” himself, was absolutely mortified as the pipers piped their way through instrumentations which should have been the most familiar of all selections to folks who play the pipes.

But upon reflection, when I consider the depth and breadth of a ceremony which required an hour, I suppose a scant fraction of the elapsed time having been disrupted by the horrendous interpretation of two songs isn’t all that significant.

I can tell you, I was my own worst critic that day.

And so it is, I think, with all of life.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A BIG GULP FOR ROVER

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I drove a big brown UPS delivery truck for twenty years, and was never happier than when I pulled into the local hub for the last time on October 23, 1997. As I coasted into that same old space where I always parked # 59299, along with the great captain of our souls, I might well have uttered,

“It is finished.”

Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.

Years earlier, as a matter of fact closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city, And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5th Street, SE was very much like any other street in "Winter Haven," (the location of the famous "Cypress Gardens,") with one exception.

… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.

There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.

Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been

… Destination Dog

As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and

… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!

And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”

Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.

(And I think I know why)!

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHAT ABOUT THOSE DRONES?

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Our government is putting out the most bizarre explanation in the history of explanations.

18 National Security agencies, the FBI, Homeland Security, the United States Space Force, and the list goes on. And after hundreds of drones have hovered over multiple states, they want us to believe they have no idea, whatsoever, what the things are and where they came from. Not only that, but the Biden Administration claims they don't have the authority to "take them out." (Flight 93 came perilously close to being shot out of the sky).

Beyond all this, I haven't heard one reporter ask the most obvious question. "Why can't you send up aircraft to check out these intrusive UFO's?"

But the "broken record" response is: "We have no reason to believe these unidentified objects pose any threat."

The entire scenario reminds me of that old radio broadcast in which Orson Welles had everyone on the east coast shook up thinking Martians were about to atomize millions of Americans. (I saw one myself last night, and it gave me the "wooley boogers").

C'mon guys! It ain't rocket science! Tell us what the blooming things are.

SINGING WITH THE CIRCUIT RIDER

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My wife was with our daughter in Massachusetts, as she was facing surgery at the time. And shortly after my wife flew out, the State of Florida was confronted with another hurricane.

I had planned to "hang loose" in my home in central Florida, as I had done with the previous six hurricanes in the last quarter century. However, when the television weatherman informed his Tampa Bay area audience that the storm had reached CAT 5 status and 180 mph winds while still a couple hundred miles out in the Gulf of Mexico, it seemed to me the Creator of storms was prompting me to "get outta Dodge."

My God-daughter, one of my former university students, and her husband, an Army chaplain, invited me to drive up to L.A. (Lower Alabama) in order to enjoy their company, and to avoid the effects of Hurricane Milton. I didn't need to be asked twice.

It goes without saying that I enjoyed my visit immensely. I love this couple and their precious children dearly.

While I was there it was decided that we would drive over to a pioneer village which, as you have probably presumed, included a General Store, miscellaneous old homes and buildings, various craftswomen weaving cloth, bottling honey, teaching children to make rudimentary dolls from corn husks, etc.

At one point we made our pilgrimage to what appeared to be some semblance of a church. Upon entering the edifice, we discovered a sixty something year old parson dressed in "Johnny Cash" black. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat atop his cranium, and a cross around his neck. A guitar was attached to his neck by way of a wide leather strap.

"Parson Roberts" began to share his extensive knowledge of the Christian circuit riders. What they wore. Where they went. To whom they went to. The sort of sermons they preached. And what they sang.

Having reached the end of his, no doubt, memorized monologue, the good preacher asked,

"Does anyone have a favorite selection? I will try to sing it."

To which I responded,

"How about the Old Rugged Cross."

The good preacher seemed to think this was a good thing. And thus, he immediately began singing. And I could just not help myself.

I began singing the first verse in unison with him.

"On a hill faraway stood an old rugged cross

the emblem of suffering and shame..."

And "to put myself out there" just isn't generally my forte. But it just felt right, and it just felt comfortable. And I was not a bit anxious.

"And I love that old cross where the dearest and best

for a world of lost sinners was slain."

Somewhere between the first couple of lines of the song and the next couple of lines, I realized that my God-daughter Jaci was videoing us. And I was glad for it since I 'save' videos of family life, our travels, etc. on a storage device to be passed down to my children.

We proceeded to sing three verses of that old hymn. And as we sang, I found I missed an occasional word, as I hadn't sung that song in church, or otherwise for multiplied years.

As the circuit riding preacher man and I sang the last line of the hymn, and acknowledged one another, I stood from my pew, and we prepared to walk out of the old church.

And as we stepped out into the sunlight, I smiled, and experienced a quiet satisfaction that the same old Gospel message was going forth here in this little pioneer village in Alabama, as it has done in hundreds of thousands of localities throughout the earth over the course of two thousand years.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

OLD 59299

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I dropped by the grocery store today with the intention of picking up a gallon of sweet tea and a strawberry cheesecake. Before I left the supermarket, I had the two foregoing items in my hands, as well as a package of Oreo cookies. And to "top it all off," I stopped by the adjoining Oriental restaurant and got a takeout of Shrimp Lo Mein. My wife has been out of state for over two months, and as a result, I have been consuming a whole lotta processed food, and gaining some weight as a result.

All that to say that on my way from my car to the supermarket, I noticed one of those big Buster Brown's parked next to the store, better known as a UPS P800 package car. And as you might well imagine, (since anymore it is the order of the day), the vehicle was filthy.

Recently, I saw a photo of a UPS truck, and someone had done some unique "finger art" in the filth on the back wall of the vehicle. A sketch (and a very good one) of Santa. I have seen other photos of words, phone numbers, and the like etched onto the dirty sides, or back wall of a United Parcel vehicle. A very sad development, as when I worked for "the tightest ship in the shipping business" our trucks were washed on a nightly basis.

As I approached the UPS P800, it occurred to me to leave a memento of my passing. (Sounds like I'm dead)! At any rate, stepping up to the back wall of the truck, I began to write my name in the dirt, and afterwards the number of my last UPS vehicle (which I last drove just short of 30 years ago).

Bill

59299

And, there is little doubt that my name and previous P800 package car number will be driving throughout the highways and byways of my hometown for weeks to come. As if, in essence, she had been provided just one more chance to roll along the city streets. Very poignant to consider since by now my old Big Brown Bessie has, no doubt, been turned into doorknobs and children's toys and living room lamps.

And while I detest UPS' current practice of allowing their vehicles to look like a pig pen, there was something vicarious about including my name and truck number on a modern day version of old 59299, and watching as it drove off to deliver its next package, as if we had the opportunity to do it just one more time.

Bill McDonald, PhD

RUDE

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There are times when I think the people around and about me absolutely have no couth.

Yesterday was a good example. 

I drove up to the post office to mail a package, and check the mail in my post office box. I walked in. I retrieved my mail, and was walking towards the counter when a young man rounded the corner behind me; his smart phone blaring some unknown, (at least to me), piece of music. Ten steps later and he was out the front door.

And now, I took my place behind two women at the customer counter. A heavy set woman was in the process of mailing a package, and was, at the same time, carrying on a phone conversation with a man who, when he spoke, could also be clearly heard. 

In the course of her two minute tenure with the postal clerk, she was engaged with both the lady behind the counter, and her presumed long distance friend, since at one point he says something like, "Yeah, I have been working for (thus 'n such), but they haven't given me any driving jobs in a couple of weeks, so I plan to talk to (thus 'n such) about a job."

Now, the woman completed her business and (thankfully) made her way out the front door. After I finished my business at the counter, I shook my head, and remarked to the clerk,

"Don't you just love people who carry on a phone conversation when they are mailing a package?"

And just as though we had practiced in advance, we both simultaneously remarked,

"What a rude woman!"

Of course, we got a good laugh outta that.

But it wasn't over yet. 

Now, as I made my way home the owner of a white SUV navigated within three feet of my back bumper. Well, anyone who knows me knows this is the only thing that "lights my fuse." I simply can't tolerate it. Now, I "put the pedal to the metal" (to no avail). He continued to lay on my bumper. Ultimately, he whipped around me, and sailed down the road at 90 mph.

                                           Rude. Rude. Rude

(3 examples of Rude in the space of 9 minutes)!

I'm convinced. Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Saint or Sinner, we are better than this. We are all capable of exercising a little common courtesy.

C'mon people!!!

SCHOOL DAZE

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My wife, Jean, and I have known one another for well over half a century. We were 4^th grade classmates, and Mrs. Waters was our teacher. I remember this bless-ed lady as one of my most favorite teachers. She was a fine Christian woman, an excellent role model, and dearly loved her students.

I’ll always remember our lunchroom and library. I include these facilities in the same sentence since they were adjacent to one another, and strangely enough for Florida, they were situated below ground level. We walked down one flight of stairs, and we found ourselves in a common hallway with the lunchroom on the front left, and the library on the back right.  I think I looked forward to these daily excursions “into the abyss.” There was something rather mysterious about stepping out of the daylight into what I may have fancied as another realm.

It may have been in the 2^nd or 3^rd grade that I became interested in a particular book which I discovered in the library. This far along I cannot tell you why, but I read the entire volume in the confines of that library, (though I can’t imagine such a book being on the reserved list since it was fictional in nature, and it involved an equally fictional alien.) During my entire elementary education, it is the only book I remember, (though sadly, I don’t recall its title.) At the time, however, I was absolutely fascinated with that little creature, and could hardly wait to resume my reading the next school day.

Mrs. Samson was my first, as well as my second grade teacher, and she suggested our second grade class stage a school play. I was convinced that I was her favorite student, (though I might have thought differently at the conclusion of the production.) I was chosen to assume the role of the Fire Wizard; one manifestation of that old faker, “The Wizard of Oz.”

I must remind myself to ask my mother if she remembers attending that play. It is one of the most poignant memories of all my elementary years. I wore more cosmetics on my face than the lady at the Ritz ticket counter, (whom I have previously described.) My entire face was covered in heavy red rouge or lipstick. And since the whole of my monologue consisted of two lines, I was able to give significant attention to the dramatic elements of the production. (Reader, you should be smiling about now.) After all, without exception, my classmates and I were convinced we were dealing with a ground breaking interpretation of that famous movie by the same name.

As I walked onto the stage, I was greeted with laughter. The audience response set me back a little, and I could only wonder if I’d missed the joke. But undeterred, I quoted my lines with all the professionalism and seriousness of Clark Gable, (or Don Knotts.)

“I am Oz, the great and the terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?”

And then, my short-lived elementary school acting career was over. God giveth and God taketh away. ‘Tis a pity. I was good. If, indeed, I am ever called upon for an encore, I will be ready, (since I still remember those poignant and compelling lines.)

I was a little rascal, and Mrs. Waters never knew what was coming next. I sat behind a little girl named “Tiffany,” and she happened to have the most beautiful blond pigtails. In that day and time, even as elementary students, we used a type of ink pen which featured a small lever which allowed us to draw ink into the cylinder.  Each desk was equipped with an inkwell just the perfect size for a custom size bottle of blue ink. You guessed it. At least once, and perhaps several times, I unscrewed the lid of my ink bottle, and… dipped Tiffany’s pigtails into it. It  was only later that she became aware of her multi-colored braids, (and I can tell you, she wasn’t impressed.)

Augie and I sat next to an old fashioned room radiator, and during the Winter when the heater was nice and toasty, we’d melt crayons against it. I can tell you that by the end of the semester, that radiator looked closer to a Picasso than a classroom heater.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

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