A Bit of Tree Empathy - Part 2

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In a previous blog titled, “A Bit of Tree Empathy” (Part 1) I related how I planned to de-moss a lone oak tree in a pasture today.

I did.

At least I did a tolerable job of it considering the tools I possessed, and the understandable expectation of the owner, a church, that I not bring any ladders to the task.

Since the 1,500 pound bovines were grazing a couple hundred yards across the pasture, and seemed to have no intention of trampling me underfoot, I felt altogether safe, and went to work. (Obviously, I was careful to avoid wearing red).

By the time I finished the deed I managed to defoliate the tree to the tune of twelve 30 gallon yard bags. To be fair, by the time the job was complete

… it wasn’t.

I can’t honestly say that the tree looked all that much different than when I first began. There was still plenty of that gray parasitic amoeba hanging in the tree, but I found myself hoping that I’d done enough to “give it (the tree) a fighting chance).”

(Don’t tell anyone, but I must be a “Tree Whisperer” since when I’d done all I planned to do, I placed my hand on the tree, and said,

“Well, it’s up to you now. Sorry, but … I ain’t doing this a second time.”

At the grand old age of 2/3 of a century, (I’m thirty, as long as I stay away from mirrors) I was surprised how much this job “kicked me in the a_ _ .”

(I don’t say that “A word,” but sometimes I spell it, … minus the second and third letter).

I mean, I worked for United Parcel Service for twenty years, and knew “the heat of the day,” but I retired a full two decades ago, and hadn’t been put to such a test, as this, since then.

I found myself slowing down. I mean like real S-L-O-W. And I later realized that while I had “downed” a quart thermos of water in the first hour of the five hours I spent in that pasture, all I imbibed in the remaining four hours was a few swigs of Pepsi. Well, my friend, to put it succinctly, that simply doesn’t work.

I found myself seeking the comfort of the tree trunk every eight or ten minutes. Unfortunately, the bull ants must have had the same idea. Several caught my hapless skin in their pincers. (I can truthfully say, however, I failed to detect the first redbug; a tiny insect which inhabits moss, like an uglier, more visible insect inhabits roach motels).

As it occurred to me later, yours truly (whom the doctor always accuses of being dehydrated) managed to excrete 99.9 per cent of the remaining H2O in my physiology, and found myself altogether “wiped out.”

I was barely able to drive the single mile to my house. And when I came in the door and did the “Honey, I’m home” thing, both my wife and I noticed that my voice was hoarse, and I immediately sought the comfort of my recliner.

With this, my wife offered a cool rag; which brought me back a full 5 percent from utter oblivion.  But it was something. And it was appreciated.

Even as I write these words, ten hours later, my voice remains raspy and fatigue permeates my body.

But I’m alive. And that’s definitely a plus.

Did I mention I spoke in church tonight? (Well, I did). And though the subject had nothing at all to do with a lone oak tree in a pasture, the first words I spoke when I stepped to the podium were,

“Is it possible to feel sorry for a tree?”

(And proceeded to affirm that it is, and to summarize my day).

Would I do it all over again?

As retired military, kinda like asking me if I would answer this country’s call to Iraq or Afghanistan. (Though at this stage, I consider both carbon copies of Vietnam).

Yes. Yes, I would.

But as I admonished  that little lone oak tree in the pasture,

…"Don’t ask me to do it again."

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

Angels Among Us

Several months ago I found myself doing what I do almost every night, well, every morning if you call “dark city” morning. I jump on my slow, but trusty bike and head off on a 10 mile trek.

On this particular morning I happened to stop at an intersection, preparing to cross a 4 lane highway, and looked to my right. And strangely enough for 4am, I could just make out the form of a fella walking towards me on the sidewalk; perhaps 50 feet away.

Well, not being overly concerned about the man walking in my direction, I glanced one more time to my left, and prepared to “high tail it” across the highway. Mind you, no more than 2 seconds had elapsed since I had noticed the guy walking towards me on the sidewalk, and as I began peddling, I glanced back to my right.

And where a moment before there was what appeared to be a six foot, 170 pound man,

… only thin air greeted my gaze.

And since I peddle this same route every day it’s a familiar environment for me,

… (and this is the “wild card,”)

I’m aware of a 6-8 foot high wall that runs along that sidewalk, and which borders a gated community. There had been absolutely nowhere for “my friend” to go. He certainly didn’t vault the wall in record time, and since there are plenty of street lights along that stretch of highway, I would have seen him had he walked across the street.

Over the past year I have experienced a rather difficult season; something relating to rejection, and which kicked me in the figurative rear end. And as I reflect on it now, I think it was after this angelic visitation that the dark emotions with which I had contended began to lift.

I believe in angels, seen and unseen, and I’m thankful for their ministry to God’s people.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

 

Ignoring Our Demons

Scripture instructs us to “not be anxious for anything, but by prayer and supplication let your petitions be known to God.” (Phil. 4:6, MPV)

     Anxiety is not an emotion I can fully identify with, as it’s never been a large part of my life, but I am empathetic towards those who suffer this malady. There are those who know this emotion intimately, and like an unwelcome lover, it knocks on their door again and again.

    While fear is not always irrational, most fears are inconsequential, and intangible because… they never come to pass. Our fears become consequential, and tangible only in terms of the way they impact us. One man reminded me that …” Fictionalized Events Aren’t Real,” and someone else reflected that fear is… “False Evidence Appearing Real.” But so like our dreams, we have the unique ability to add substance to that ‘spirit of Fear.” That which we nourish grows. That which we diminish weakens, and dies.

     And there can be little doubt that “The greatest burden we carry are the fears that never comes to pass.”

     I’ve done some recent work with Anxiety. One particular woman, we’ll call her Debbie, came to me with severe symptoms of panic disorder and generalized anxiety. And with so many, I discovered her symptoms included two major patterns, or phases of behavior. 

    There is the initial trigger mechanism that represents an irrational fear factor. There is usually a specific stimulus common to the particular client. The second factor, or stage is the tendency to devote copious thought to the initial stimulus, and it’s perceived effects.

    Anxiety becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. The scripture reminds us that “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.” (Proverbs 23:7, KJV) That which we dwell upon, we become (or act out or exhibit, or are influenced by). Anxiety becomes cyclic, feeding upon itself.

     I was watching an episode of “Little House on the Prairie” today. Charles, the male Patriarch, had been accidentally shot, and was close to death. Laura, his young daughter, managed to locate an old blind man, living in a skinner’s cabin nearby. This ancient fellow (played by Burl Ives) was reluctant to help, and Laura pleaded with him to get involved. She looks at him, with those beautiful brown eyes, and says, “I know you’re afraid, but we can be afraid together.”

     Nothing big, nothing worth doing, nothing extraordinary was ever done, or will ever be done without a bit of fear. You already know I’m “keen” on the military. I marvel at the countless Congressional Medal of Honor winners who sacrificed limb, and sometimes life for this great nation. I think if you could ask any of them the question, “Were you afraid,” every one of these heroes would answer, “Yes, of course I was afraid, but I refused to let fear immobilize me.”

     Fear can immobilize a person. Anxiety can keep one stuck. We have been sensitized by various triggers and stimuli, but we do ourselves a disservice when we Allow these influences to dominate us.

 

    John Nash, the schizophrenic mathematician of the book and movie, "A Beautiful Mind" once said,

“I’ve gotten used to ignoring my ‘demons,' and I think they’ve given up on me.”

 

     I think we have Choices. We can Choose what we do with our thoughts, and what we will do with the trigger mechanisms of the Past. We can give ourselves over to these destructive, unworthy things, or we can lend our minds to that which encourages, enhances and positively impacts. We have a Choice.

    The exercise of our faith is not dependent on the absence of our fear.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

 

 

 

GOTCHA!!!

I completed my Master’s degree at Liberty University through an off-campus modality. Back in the “dinosaur days,” and before students had access to online coursework, we viewed video tapes which contained our professors’ lectures, and completed our course tests under the supervision of a local person appointed and anointed to administer them. During the process of completing our off-campus degree programs, we were required to attend a couple of on-campus modular courses which lasted a week.

At this writing, Readers, I don’t recall the title of the course in which I was enrolled at the time, but I do recall another counseling student by the name of Randy. (His last name escapes me now, though we kept in touch for a while after graduation).

We were given an assignment to break up into two person “groups” one day. This would be the first time ever to practice our eventual “stock in trade.” We were allowed to bring up any issue to the opposite student and elaborate, and then it became their turn to encourage, guide or advise the initial student.

Randy shared something with me in relation to his needs or issues, and I followed up with some sage advice, or at least some ad-lib wisdom, (or lack thereof). Now it was my turn to “play the client.”

“Randy, I never shared this with anyone other than my wife. But I was born in the Congo. My parents were missionaries there, and they sent me away to an international boarding school, a couple hundred miles away. While I was at school, there was an uprising by a particular tribe there which had a terrible reputation for violence. Dad and Mom were taken for ransom. My parents’ denominational leaders received a couple of letters written by my dad while he and my mom were being held hostage. Daddy begged them to pay the $200,000 ransom.

Well, the missionary board they worked under had a policy that, should missionaries ever be taken hostage, a ransom would never be paid, since payments only encouraged further hostage taking. The Congolese National Army sent hundreds of troops into the jungle to find and rescue my parents,… but they were never found. (I began to tear up). Randy, … I never saw my parents again.”

My “counselor” sat there silent, with beads of sweat forming on his brow. And then he shook his head from side to side, as if musing how to respond to such a heinous memory.

I continued my unfinished story.

“Well, my friend, I’ve often thought about my parents, whether they had been tortured, if they were dead, or still alive out there somewhere. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of them, and you know, I wondered. Then a couple months ago, I was at my local flea market. I was looking through the odds and ends at this booth, and then that one. So, I walk up to this one really exotic booth. I mean it had stuff from different parts of the world. And then I see the wierdest stuff hanging from these strings attached to a display.

Shrunken heads.

There were maybe 12 or 15 of them. Now, this really got my attention. It’s not every day you see authentic shrunken heads. I considered buying one, ‘cause I was sure it would look really cool in my future counseling office. I was making a decision which one to buy when I noticed that two of the heads looked very familiar. And then I realized why.

Randy, I was looking into the faces of my… parents!

I fainted right there on the spot.”

Randy’s mouth was hanging down to his chest by this time. His eyes were transfixed. His respiration was hardly negligible. He looked like a mannequin.

I continued.

“Well, my compatriot, after another customer managed to get me to my feet, I decided then and there that my parents weren’t going to be a part of that freak show, and not any ‘Joe Blow’ was going to purchase their heads. Randy, I bought them. I know it must seem peculiar, but I treasure them. I haven’t made up my mind whether to make some sort of shrine for them at home, or whether to hold a memorial service and invite some of my relatives and their old missionary friends.”

“I’d really like some help with this decision. What do you think I should do?”

As Randy attempted to regain his composure, and “hemmed and hawed” around, the morbid look on my face quickly disappeared, and I almost shouted...

“GOTCHA!!!”

 

BY William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Musings"

 

 

 

A Bit of Tree Empathy - Part 1

There’s a moss-covered oak tree which sets in a nearby cow pasture, and I intend to do something about it.

Tomorrow.

The pasture belongs to a Baptist church, and for the longest time the church had plans to relocate to this site. However, for whatever reason plans have changed, and the land has been put up for sale.

Recently, I contacted the pastor of the church, and asked permission to de-foliate the moss. He acquiesced. His sole requirement was that I don’t climb the tree, or use a ladder. I offered to send him a release of liability, and he accepted my proposal.

Is it possible to feel compassion for a tree?

Apparently I do.

It is such a beautiful little thing. Perhaps twenty foot tall, and with a perfect canopy. And yet with this invasive gray parasite reeking more havoc on the little tree’s limbs and leaves than common with 99 percent of its “peers,” the poor thing is likely to succumb to its committed onslaught in the space of months.

I understand the “wild card” is whether my work will be for naught; since whomever purchases the land may use it for business purposes, and may well remove the tree.

But in spite of this possibility, I just feel I have to give this lovely work of nature a fighting chance.

I like to think if I were a little moss-covered tree, someone would do as much for me.

(See Part 2)

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

The Zoo Crew - Part 2

Country Walk was, as I have previously inferred, an upscale community of $300,00 - $500,000 homes. After the storm, it was obvious that home buyers there had been gypped. Every house in the community had sustained damage, and though Hurricane Andrew was later determined to be a Category 5 storm, the damage in Country Walk was considered far too severe for the price, and supposed level of construction.

SFC Hoehne and I patrolled the neighborhood regularly, and we never ceased to be amazed how shoddy the construction really was. It was obvious the builder used far too much plywood, and far too little of anything else. Long after our unit had packed up and returned home, residents of this community were busy with legal suits against their home insurers. 

 

One day as Bob and I manned our makeshift guard shack at the entrance to this once lavish neighborhood, I happened to turn around, and my eyes fell on perhaps the most peculiar site I have EVER seen. For there, sitting in an empty field in all its glory sat an undamaged

… airplane.

It was one of those WWII style C-47 “gooney birds” like “Sky King” flew on that old television series by the same name. The plane was completely intact, in spite of all the nearby damage, and it looked SO out of place that I could barely believe it wasn’t a mirage.

I turned and asked Sergeant Hoehne, “Hey Bob. What is that gooney bird doing out there in the field?”

Without so much as looking up, or betraying any particular emotion, whatsoever, he answered,

“Yeah. That thing. Well, the story is that it flew its last flight without a pilot. There’s an airplane museum about a mile from here, and it just came apart when the storm hit. They think there were some tornadoes imbedded in the hurricane.”

As I recall, it was only after “Andrew” that the owner of the attraction moved his “Fantasy of Flight” museum to the Polk City area; just a few miles from my hometown. A similar aircraft greets customers today, as they prepare to drive in the main gate. For all I know, it’s the same one I saw sitting out in that field.

At the time, our troops came and went, as they liked, with M-16’s slung over their shoulders. (Interestingly enough, Florida National Guard members kept loaded magazines in their ammo pouches, while Regular Army troops were prohibited from doing so, though they carried the same weapon. This was attributed to our status as constabulary officers of the State of Florida, whereas the lack of a martial law decree prevented the active Army from having ammunition on their persons).

One day, three or four members of my section drove our jeep to the local McDonald’s, which was only just back in operation. We enjoyed our meals, and as we walked back out into the sunshine, unwashed, sweaty, covered in camouflage, and M-16’s over our shoulders, a young woman approached us. Without warning the lady wrapped me in her arms, and said,

 

“You guys just don’t know how thankful we are that you came to help us.”

… and then she slipped away.

All the hassle, all the heat, all the sweat, all the gloom, and all the “just not wanting to be there,” well,

… that one solitary hug, and those fifteen little words made it all worth it.

And if I ever complained, I stopped, and if I ever regretted being there, I never did again.

(Sometimes I think about that young woman, and her unexpected hug, and grateful words. I wonder who she was, where she was going, what has happened to her in the intervening years. I wonder).

Oh, there were the other small things which occurred, and which I fondly remember. One day I happened to be sitting next to a clear pool of water adjacent to the highway, and I noticed it contained several brim and other small fish. And I had an idea.

I found a piece of fishing line, (I have no idea where it came from) and I tied it to the end of my M-16. I must have rigged up something which remotely passed for a cork , a hook, and bait, and I proceeded to while away a few minutes fishing.

Well, not quite. I don’t believe I ever pulled in a big one, (or a small one for that matter) but I had some fun, and it broke up the monotony a bit. I’m quite sure Bob, or another section member took a picture of me, and this “jerry rig” of a fishing pole, but it’s been years since I’ve run across it.

I believe it was the same day. A civilian drove up and began talking with us, and he pulled out a U.S. flag, (and his words are suddenly new again, since I had forgotten what he said ‘til this very moment).

“Hey guys. I want you to do me a favor. Take this flag and fly it off your jeep” and something like, “This city has been pretty broken up, and things aren’t so good right now, but we’ll come back from this.”

I thanked the man, and we found an old pole, and propped it up somehow in the jeep. I would like to tell you that we flew “Old Glory” everywhere we went, but that wouldn’t be the truth. We flew it that first day, and perhaps part of the next, but it flapped in the wind, and it was impossible to maintain it in a vertical position. I framed that flag, and cherish it today. About that time there was a popular joke about the last Anglo leaving Miami bringing the American flag with him. Since then I have told people I was the last one out.

Among any circumstances I personally experienced in that place, or any story a native son or daughter there shared with me, one stands out among all the rest.

Just behind our guard shack, at the entrance to Country Walk, stood a house, not unlike a myriad of other severely damaged homes. One afternoon, not long after we began guarding the place, a man came strolling up from behind us . I turned, and he began to share a tale of terror, the likes of which I’d never heard.

“Hi.” (And he gave me his name). “I saw you out here, and thought I’d share my story with you. My wife and I decided to remain in our home. We figured we’d rode out other hurricanes. This one wouldn’t be all that much different. Well, in a word… it was. As that night wore on, the winds outside were only getting stronger. And then the roof began to crack, and a couple of windows broke, and our furniture began to fly around the living room. Well, we retreated to the bathroom, and locked the door, and got into the bathtub together.

And we told each other… Goodbye.”

And, “We were convinced we were going to die that night.”

The man went on to tell me that he and his wife had been interviewed by 20/20, or one of the other national television news magazines. Sure enough, that amazing segment was broadcast a week or two after the hurricane. So many years hence, I have attempted to locate some reference to this couple, and their story on the internet, but I haven’t been able to do so.

Forty days. August 24, 1992 – October 3, 1992. Strangely enough, on that last night, before departure, I witnessed the most glorious “shooting star” flame through the atmosphere above our encampment. And on that final day, a beautiful bald eagle flew over the length of compound.

It was time to go home.

It took me two weeks to feel anything like myself again. I was tired. I was just plain worn out. And I began to question why. Granted, I’d served some pretty long days, and I’d been exposed to the heat of the day, and done things I wasn’t at all used to doing. But there had to be something more.

And then I realized what it was.

Color

(or namely, the lack thereof).

Over the course of forty days I had viewed the world in

… black and white

in a place where color had all but disappeared, and been replaced with shades of black and white, and gray and brown. Buildings broken down and ravaged by winds of ungodly strength, and every vestige of green stripped from trees and bushes.

I slowly acclimated to an environment which included color. The world seemed as new and fresh, and GREEN to me, as it must have seemed to our first parents in their garden home.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well Lived" Vol. 4

 

 

 

 

The Zoo Crew - Part 1

Part 1

As close as the then serving members of 2^nd Bn, 116^th FA came to combat occurred in August, 1992, two years before I was discharged from the Florida Army National Guard, and transferred to the Inactive Army Reserve.

 

It was hurricane season, and a particularly ferocious storm was nearing the southeast coast of Florida. My wife and I were attending a little church in Winter Haven at the time, and on that particular Sunday night I recall singing a solo, and encouraging the congregation to "pray for the people of Miami."

Little did I know at the time that I might well have completed the sentence with,

… “and me.”

As it fell together, Hurricane Andrew was, and still remains the largest callout of Florida National Guard troops in the history of our glorious organization. Approximately 8,000, (or half of the 16,000 guardsmen “on the payroll”) were summoned to Homestead, Florida and the surrounding environs.

The call to active duty automatically canceled any, and all of our plans for the beginning of our normal civilian work week,… (since we were no longer civilians). As I recall, my phone rang that Sunday evening, and my section sergeant informed me that I had less than an hour to report to the armory.

A hundred other privates, non-commissioned officers, and officers heeded the call, and we assembled on the drill hall floor. As an E-6, I found myself on the right side of 1^st Platoon, 1^st Squad. Our Battery Commander informed us that we had been called to state active duty for what was thought, (at the time) to be no more than “a few days.” The formation was “short and sweet.” We were ordered to report back the next morning, and in the meantime to “get your stuff together.”

As the captain dismissed the formation, he encouraged each section to check out their vehicle, and make sure it was in running order. SFC Hoehne, my section chief, and I walked out into the darkened motor pool, and sought out our jeep, or truck, or whatever we drove at the time. (At this juncture, I have forgotten).

Bob checked the oil, I cranked the engine, and we checked the belts and tires, and everything seemed to be “A-Okay” and “Good to go.”

As I drove home that night, I think I was in the state of shock, since a decade and a half in the National Guard had never required anything more from me than a weekend a month and two weeks in the Summer.

As our convoy neared Miami, and subsequently Homestead, I began to wonder “what all the fuss was about.” Houses and trees along the interstate looked intact. Not a sign of damage, anywhere. Until

… amazingly, it was all around us.

I suppose we were twenty miles from Homestead, and it was as if an angry giant had taken a drunken stroll through the countryside. Whereas nothing had seemed amiss, it all changed in a moment.

Trees were broken like proverbial matchsticks. Houses of every size, color and variety were battered and beaten. Windows blown out. Broken walls. Missing roofs. As we soon discovered, virtually no structure within 20 miles of the epicenter had been spared some level of damage.

I no longer needed any convincing.

The nearer the convoy approached our intermediate destination, the more devastated the environment, and the “anxiouser” I felt about our mission. We finally rolled into,… well, honestly I don’t remember. At any rate, this location proved to be temporary mobilization site, and after a few hours, we were redirected to, (of all places)… The Metro Zoo.

 

The day was “wearing thin” when we pulled into our permanent location. For the duration of our tour of duty there, we were known as “The Zoo Crew,” (and our unit even had T-shirts made up with a 2^nd Battalion, 116^th Field Artillery logo on the front, and on the back, a caricature of a chimpanzee in camouflage, and armed with an M-16; the monkey symbolizing the location of our mission headquarters.)

 

The Metro Zoo had been virtually leveled by Hurricane Andrew. To my knowledge, very few of the hundreds of animals there had been moved to other locations before the storm. While I never saw any giraffes or elephants, or the like, we were told a “Noah’s Ark” load of animals, including snakes, had escaped during the height of the hurricane. Our troops were given “shoot on sight” orders to kill any monkeys we happened to see on the zoo grounds, since before the hurricane there was a primate research building on the premises. This facility had been populated by hundreds of monkeys which had been exposed to the AIDS virus.

Our section was dispatched to two locations during our tour of duty in Dade County; The Homestead Flea Market, (where we were tasked with guarding thousands of dollars worth of emergency food stamps), and the “Country Walk” community, an upscale housing development which had sustained horrendous damage.

Our time at the flea market was brief, perhaps a week, so our primary duty station was situated at the entrance to Country Walk. During out stay at the flea market, however, it was interesting to meet and talk with many victims of the hurricane who had reported there to apply for emergency assistance.

There was every shade of color and language among the people who frequented the flea market that week. One very black woman stepped up to one of my section members, and said something in a language which sounded somewhat like French.  When Andy couldn’t make any sense of her question, he turned to me and said, “Bill, do you have any idea what she wants?”

Since I’d had a year of French in College, some twenty years previous, I gave it a whirl, and in my best Francais responded,

“Oui. Voila la toilet."

 

And I pointed towards a distant porta-potty. The Haitian woman smiled, and seemed content that one of these “Florida Crackers” knew the language of the Sun King, and the Bourbon family.

Another interesting experience involved my exposure to “the drink of the gods.” A Spanish lady, who spoke English, offered me a small demitasse of Cuban coffee. I have often told my wife that I drink a cup of coffee a year, whether I need it or not. I’m just not a big fan. But I REALLY liked this stuff.

Near the end of our duty at the flea market, the clouds grew dark, and the wind picked up. One little girl, she might have been three or four, began to scream, and tears rolled down her cheeks. It was obvious that little “Rachel” had been traumatized by Hurricane Andrew, and no doubt had ridden out the storm with her parents in their home. And the sudden darkness and wind made her think another severe storm was about to overtake her mother and her.

I recall the short (mosquito-bitten) nights and the long (sunburn ridden) days my section members and I spent at The Metro Zoo and Country Walk. By this time, we rolled out of our canvas enclosed bunk, (better known as a tent) and trudged towards our make-shift showers. Out troops had spent the first eight days on the premises without a shower. Eventually, sheets of plywood were erected to form a large square, and a primitive plumbing configuration was installed. Since another unit, with a female contingent, was also based on the property, we were assigned specific night and morning hours to shower. (There was a rumor that some of our guys had knocked out a few knotholes in the plywood, and managed to “sneak a peek” at the lady soldiers from time to time).

To be continued...

 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well-Lived" Vol. 4

The Best Friend and Teacher Ever

I was just watching an old segment, (well, they’re all old) of “Little House on the Prairie” in which, strangely enough, everyone in the entire town of Walnut Grove were going their separate ways.

In the meantime the actress who portrays Mary Ingalls, (strangely enough a distant cousin of mine) has lost her sight. “Pa” and “Ma” happen to be bidding Mr. and Mrs. Oleson, the shopkeepers, “adieu” when the town’s school teacher walks into the store.

Miss Beddle is well aware of Mary’s plans to teach at a blind school, and has a surprise for her. She embraces her former student, and presses something into her hand. The feel of the article in her hand is unmistakable. When she still had her sight, Mary had often seen the broach pinned to Miss Beddle’s frocks.

“Mary, my teacher gave this broach to me. Now I’m giving it to you.”

Nothing brings tears to my eyes more quickly than a scenario in which mentoring is somehow illustrated.

I am a mentor. At this time in my life and ministry mentoring IS well, my primary ministry.

One of my former interns and I were talking one day, and on a whim I asked Nikki what she thought I should use as an epitaph. Without hesitating, she responded,

“The Best Friend and Teacher Ever”

After I caught my breath, I thanked her, and told her I liked the wording so much that I planned to use it, (one day).

I was once at a graduation exercise when I saw the following adage flashed on the screen.

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

I can think of nothing better than to leave someone behind who will pass on the something which I have shared with them.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

Let Not Your Hand Tremble

There are many movies about Time Travel. I love “The Time Machine” and “Somewhere in Time.” I guess we’ve all dreamed about traveling to another time and place.

     But there aren’t any time machines, as much as I wish there were. I, for one, would love to visit Robert E. Lee in April 1865, just before he signed the document that ended the Civil War. I’d stand amazed as the Jesus of John Chapter 11 raised Lazaras from the dead. It would be an excruciating honor to watch Paul willingly lay his head on Caesar’s chopping block.

     No, there aren’t any time machines, though Einstein promoted the theory. And I seriously doubt one will be invented in my lifetime, or in the lifetimes of my children or their children’s children.

    But in a sense we live and breathe in the ongoing confines of life’s time machine. For we are ever moving forward into an unwritten, unknown future.

    And I’m convinced that God gives us the inestimable privilege of cooperating with Him, and of writing our own future. For in a very tangible way, we are the authors of our future, as we sense God’s Will and go about to do it.

    There are numerous scriptures that refer to fulfilling God’s plans, to being clay in the Hands of a goal-oriented God.

     I for one would hate to reach the zenith of my life and realize that I had “written poorly.” I would hate to reach the ripe old age of 83 to realize that my hand had trembled in the writing, and that page after page contained little more than “hen scratches,” ink blotches, and illegible words.

 

    God gives us a new and unblemished page with each new day. Let us consider the shortness of our days, and the words we write in those eternal journals.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 9

 

Elvis Has Lunch With Bigfoot

Facebook will begin stealing your underwear at midnight tonight if you don't copy & paste this message within the next 37 seconds, forward it to everyone in your mailing list, print a hard copy for your grandmother & call your teacher.

 This is real guys!!!!

 I got the message first hand from Elvis who was having lunch with Bigfoot, while riding the Loch Ness monster. It was even on the inside back cover of every tabloid in the grocery store checkout line.

 Not only will Facebook start charging you tomorrow, they are also going to bill your credit card for the past 3 years of services. Luckily, each person who copies & pastes this status will receive a FREE unicorn in the mail on Friday. However, if you don't repost this status, Facebook code has been set up to automatically set your computer on fire & harm an innocent bunny in the forest! It's all true, it was on the news!!

 It's official!!!

(A mass response to the recent mass post "going around" Facebook. Also see my earlier post, "Gullible.")

I Think I Gotta Go Pee

It’s raining this morning, and I didn’t take my 8 year old shih tzu out when I woke up during the “wee hours;” (better known as the “pee hours”).

Now she has to

… wait.

And I can imagine my Queenie is thinking,

“My human gets me out of a warm bed, and for what? So I can brood about having to go to the loo?

I mean now I have to lie here awake on my doggie bed listening to the rain while all the while pretending that I don’t have to go.

This is beyond torture. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment. Anyone got a mirror? I think my eyeballs must be turning yellow.”

Though we’ve had the precious pooch for a couple of years, and she was already old before she came to us, the little critter still has those occasional “accidents;” which aren’t accidents at all since she really could make someone aware of her colorful, (as in, brown and yellow) needs.

I can imagine just about now Queenie is thinking,

“If he would just get involved with a book, or his blasted internet blog, I could creep down the hall, (which is covered in the most comfortable blue carpet),

… and I’d be okay.”

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

GULLIBLE

As I was scanning the homepage of Facebook this evening I came across post after post, disclaimer after disclaimer, left by dozens of my 800 plus or minus "friends;" the jest of which conveyed the following message.

"I hereby notify Facebook and its subordinate entities that they are hereby precluded from using any photos or information posted on my personal page; in accordance with statute # (so & so). Failure to adhere to my stated wishes will result in

... a catastrophic cyclone that will devastate 6 of the 7 continents of the world

(or)

the sudden loss of Colonel Sander's secret recipe containing his world famous herbs and spices."

Well, you get the idea.

I mean how gullible can we be to believe that an organization such as Facebook, (or Google or Yahoo or Verizon, for that matter) which regularly shares copious amounts of data with our government's National Security Agency, can be required, constrained or expected to not do whatever it jolly well pleases with any and all photos, videos and audios we entrust to it?

GULLIBLE

(The only word which immediately springs to my mind).

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

(Also see my later post, "Elvis Has Lunch With Bigfoot")

I Took One More Step

The great George Mallory, a legend in British climbing, attempted Mount Everest a century ago. It is believed, by some, that he reached the very pinnacle of Everest, (an amazing 29,035 feet) to become the first man to set foot on the summit. Those who claim to know believe he was lost, or slipped on his way down. Others believe he died just short of his reaching the summit.  

     His body had never been found, or more precisely, had never been found ‘til recently. But in the last decade, one particular expedition was formed with the sole purpose of finding Mallory’s body.

     The climb was arduous, and previous attempts had been unfruitful. Many believed Mallory would never be found. There were just too many possibilities. Perhaps he had slipped and went off a sheer ice face, or died of hypothermia, and now lay beneath accumulated snow.

     But suddenly one of the expedition members saw something. A wisp of fabric, brown hair fluttering in the wind, a shard of bone. As the climbers moved closer, it was becoming all too obvious. Here was a human body. But even this was not conclusive. For there are dozens of corpses on Mount Everest; many who have died in storms, or fallen off ledges, and the mountain has become their tomb.

     A couple of the team members stepped forward, and began to examine the body. Time was passing, and they could not linger. Those who linger on Everest… die. Team members began to retrieve bits of clothing from the body, and a few articles from the surrounding area. They took a moment to check the shirt neck, and… the clothing tag offered absolute proof. For there, sewn into the collar was a name – George Mallory!

     As a counselor I have been concerned, well disappointed, that many of my clients languish, and remain “stuck.” Granted, there are some successes, but it is too easy to fixate on the failures. It’s too easy to feel, “I don’t really count for very much.” That for all my trying, it’s a bit futile; (futile with the British accent).

 

In my own dreams I see myself leading an expedition up Mount Everest; people depending on my every word and move. The ice flows make for difficult climbing, and aluminum ladders must be tied together and stretched across dark crevices. Deep snow drifts slow the expedition, and rock outcroppings must be scaled. There is just so much time available to us. We must make the summit by early afternoon, or we'll be stuck on the mountain overnight. This would present an impossible scenario. The extreme cold of the Everest night is intolerable.

     I look behind me, and there are fewer of us now. Some have turned back, so much like Lot’s wife. I see them trudging back down the mountain. They were so close to the goal. I see others falling to their knees, unable to move any further, either up or down. And so like many who climb Everest, they exhibit symptoms of malaise, and sit down to die. So like “Old Mallory,” they are so close, yet so far.

     But the summit hovers just above me. Oh, the beauty. Oh, the rapture of that peak. I will not give up, and I will take my remaining team members to the top. I cannot help those who have turned their backs on success. They have made their own choices. The wiles of the thicker air beckon them back to a more earthly, (or earthy) existence. Their receding figures are growing smaller, and begin to disappear from my sight.

     It is too easy to turn back. It is too easy to give up when others turn back. Granted, it is so disappointing. But as leaders, we have a task to do. When we first began “our climb” my assistant made an inestimably wise statement.

     “Our work with hurting people won’t be short or easy. If only one person “reaches the summit,”

  … it will be worth it.”

      Don’t give up. Keep climbing. When you fall down, get up. When you are out of breath, slow down, but don’t stop.

      Someone asked Sir Edmund Hillary, the first successful climber of Mount Everest, a poignant question:

     “What makes you any different than all the others who have attempted the mountain?”

       Hillary considered his answer a moment, and responded.

     “When I had climbed as far as I possibly could… I took one more step!”

     When we’re discouraged, disheartened and close to “chucking it all,” we have to

… “take one more step.”

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

The Next Best Thing to a Time Machine

I served a tour of duty in the active Air Force before completing another thirty-plus years in the Guard and Reserve. Back in 1970 I found myself assigned to my only permanent base, MacDill AFB, in Tampa, Florida.

I was a newly assigned personnel clerk, having only just learned to type on an electric typewriter a few weeks earlier. I served in the CBPO (Consolidated Base Personnel Office) and in the Separations/Reenlistments/Retirements Section. Day after day I typed DD Form 214’s which was, and still is the form everyone separating from active service receives on their last day in uniform.

I met and liked many interesting young, and not so young men at the CBPO, primarily in my own section, of which there were six or eight in attendance doing similar duties.

Having retired from reserve service in 2009, my wife and I still drive over to MacDill AFB, a distance of 50 miles, every 2-3 months, and buy groceries at the commissary. (As a matter of fact, as I write this paragraph, we just got back from that recurring “pilgrimage” in the last few minutes).

The CBPO is still there, and is still being used for the same purpose. Sometime in the past year while we were visiting MacDill, we stopped by the personnel offices in order for my wife to procure a new military ID card. While we were there, I stepped up to the customer service window, and asked the airman, (well, in this case, the air lady) whether she would mind me climbing the steps to the second floor, and check out the office where I used to work. “Airman Jenkins,” responded with a, “Well, no. I’m sorry you can’t. You understand these are active duty offices.” (To which I might have responded, “Well, duh…Yes, of course I know that. I told you I used to work here).

(Well,) my readers, I would not be denied. After I asked I thought, “Since its’ easier to apologize than to ask permission, I shouldn’t have asked permission.” I stepped away from the sight of the “nay sayer,” and climbed up to the second floor; on a staircase I had climbed on a daily basis over the course of three years. (Odd, that was almost half a century ago).

I mounted the second floor landing, and took an immediate right, and then another immediate right, and I was standing in my old place of business. I was surprised to see that what I was looking at was no longer a separations and reenlistment office, nor rather an office at all. The approximately 600 square foot office was now a conference room; complete with tables, and a flat screen television mounted on the front wall.

My mind momentarily drifted back to the original layout of the room; 3 typing desks cued up, front to back, on the far side of the office, 2 in the center, 1 closest to where I now stood, and 1 in the center, back of the room, where our supervisor, a 50-something Jewish NCO sat, (and as far as I recall did little or nothing throughout the course of the day).

Though sometimes I strain to recall the given names of my CBPO compatriots, I’ve never forgotten their surnames. There was Shannon, and Ortiz, and Collier, and Finch, and McGibney, and LaLone, (who happened to be a total twirp) and Barbenell, (and our “big boss,” Senior Master Sergeant Koppel had a small office across the hall).

I love that old movie, “The Time Machine,”… but sadly there are no time machines, and you truly can’t go back.

I guess I did the next best thing.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Concepts, Teachings, Practicalities & Stories"

 

 

 

 

 

Memories of my Favorite Teacher

My favorite teacher of all time, Mrs. Belflower, once told me that if I applied myself I would be a better student. I think I believed her, but I never did; at least not in high school. Somehow “the powers that be” made a decision, (in some back room, or otherwise) to include me in classes with “the best and the brightest.” I can’t account for their seemingly faulty decision, even today, except that perhaps “they” (whoever “they” are) knew that I was capable of more. I did manage to eek out a Senior Test score which rated me #47 of 208 total students in my graduating class, so I was well within the top 25% in terms of this quantifier. But a test like that only speaks of Potential, and very little else.

Since I have “opened the door,” and mentioned Mrs. Belflower, suffice it to say she never failed to tell her incoming classes that she had been chosen “Runner Up Miss Georgia, 1949;” the year I happened to make my grand entrance into the world. While she expected each of her students to exert their best efforts, and she was empathetically overbearing in this regard, (if this is possible) she was also extraordinarily personable and caring, and was willing to give individual time to anyone who asked.

In regard to a memory I previously shared in a previous segment, my wife has told me that on the day that terrible tragedy occurred on the Summerlin campus, Mrs. Belflower ran past her, and as she passed asked, “Jean, do you have any idea what is happening?” Mary, (for that was her first name) had no doubt heard the piercing screams of students, and the initial sound of metal against metal, and was determined to help any way she could). My future wife had replied that she had no idea what was happening, and she had walked off in a different direction.

I regret not “keeping up with” Mrs. Belflower. After graduation I never spoke to her again, nor did we have any further contact. I had heard, however, that she had contracted cancer, and was terminal, and during that last season of her life I once saw her in a crowded auditorium. I was a young adult by this time, and our high school auditorium was being renamed in honor of my high school choral teacher, the late Miss Margaret Clark; (of whom I will shortly allude).

For whatever reason, though Mrs. Belflower sat within 20 feet of my own seat, I didn’t walk over and renew our acquaintance. Perhaps I was sensitive about what I could possibly say to her, considering she was close to the threshold which separated two worlds. I don’t believe she recognized me, if indeed she ever looked in my general direction. But I will always regret not approaching her, and chatting with her a moment, thanking her for the expertise and empathy she had lent a boy with more potential than he exercised, and perhaps leaving her with a well-deserved embrace.

Mrs. Belflower once required us to learn a stanza from the poem, “Thanatopsis.”

“So live that when thy summons comes to join that innumerable throng where each shall take his chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not like the quarry slave scourged to the dungeon, but soothed and sustained by an unfaltering trust. Approach thy grave like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”

I have never forgotten the words of that poem. And I think my dear teacher must have left this mortal sphere blessedly aware of this truth, and still whispering those poignant words.

But as Paul Harvey was prone to say,

“And now, my friends,… the rest of the story.”

Mary Duncan Belflower is interred in Wildwood Cemetery in Bartow, our hometown, and only a mile from the high school where she taught, and which she had loved so long and so well.

She deserved a more noble stone; a more memorable marker. A small granite rectangle marks her place.

MARY DUNCAN BELFLOWER

April 27, 1929  – July 12, 1980

It hardly seems enough.

She deserved some sort of epitaph, some final words, some encouragement or admonition for those she left behind.

Though in this life, I never fostered an ongoing relationship with my 9^th grade English teacher, in some sense of the word, (though she is gone now) the relationship has since been reestablished.

I visit her final resting place from time to time. I pull a few weeds and I sweep off any debris which may have accumulated there. And I say a few words.

I noticed recently that her marker had shifted a bit, since it is a few inches above ground level, and will need to be reset. Ultimately, I hope to do her that favor.

She did so much more than this for me.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots From A Life (Not Always So) Well Lived"