MY FIRST BEST FRIEND

 4087

One of my first memories, I dare say my first memory of all time, takes me back at least 60 years to the early 50’s. (For those of you, my descendants, who may be reading this at some point, multiplied eons into the future, I am referring to the 20^th Century.)

I was 3, perhaps 4 years of age and we were still living in the city where I had been born; Coral Gables, Florida. My parents were from Georgia, (the state, not the country) and were possessed of what has been referred to as a “Southern drawl.” I mention this here since it is a convenient place to do so, as I progressively developed a similar accent; they being my models in so many ways.

Florida is unique among Southern states since there seems to be no regional accent, and I think this is all about the genesis of her population. I’ve often referred to Florida as the only Northern state in the South, as our peoples come from places like Ohio, and Michigan and Canada and various other states in the North, as well as the Southeast. (I happen to be one of the minority of people frequenting Florida who is a true-born native of this great state.)

Well, as they were so often prone to end old-time radio, and perhaps television advertisements… “And now back to our story.”

My parents, Henry and Erma McDonald, were in their early to mid-20’s. At the time Mama was a “domestic goddess,” and my father was a roofer; (an excruciatingly hot and demanding job in an area like South Florida.) They rented what had apparently been a former chicken coup before being remodeled into something remotely similar to an apartment. We were forced to use our landlord’s facilities which required us to walk a few steps out our back door to a duplicate outside door leading into what our British cousins call a “water closet,” (and to be sure, it was closer to being a closet than anything else.)

It is easy to believe that so much of what I relate here are memories I have garnered on my own, but I tend to think the majority of the illusions which fill up such a delicious psyche as mine have been won by the sort of verbal osmosis which results from… the retelling.

I know our landlord’s name was “Mrs. Gunter,” and that her sister, “Mrs. Hisey” lived across the street. I’m sure the duel syllables of each of their surnames were bestowed upon me as a result of oral tradition. However, no one can ever convince me that I don’t retain a vivid remembrance of Mrs. Hisey’s humble dwelling place, and her person. For you see, she was my babysitter, and I loved her, (or perhaps, I mostly loved being left off at her house.)

It was an interesting old place reminiscent in my semi-fictional meanderings of the great old homestead of “Mr. Rochester” of Charlotte Bronte fame, or at least the concoction of a mind Anglicized by a love for the genealogical heritage of my multiplied, (but sadly deceased) ancestors.

The front room was the center piece of everything near and dear to my liking. A large old picture window faced the street, and to be fair I think that Mrs. H. must have “windexed” it often, for if nothing else, it was certainly clean. Heavy maroon curtains hung from small rods on each side of that window, and they were gathered back by similar, but slightly darker material. And here it is where the memory of that small domicile seems not so pleasant, for with the knowledge that may only be gleaned with the passing of years, I think the cloth of those curtains had the texture of… funeral draperies. Far too many gathered ruffles… like the inside of a casket. But we will certainly not dwell here. I hasten to add that across the main part of the vast window hung cream colored lace affairs, almost like crochet in their appearance. 

In my mind’s eye, Mrs. Hisey was a virtual twin of my mother’s mother (or what my maternal grandmother looked like a couple decades hence,) for this old spinster was definitely older at the time, and approaching the last quarter of her life.

Her snow white hair was parted in the middle, and wrapped tightly around each side of her head culminating in a bun, not unlike a caricature of Martha Washington or Dolly Madison. And she wore dark, “old lady dresses” which accentuated nothing, and hung mid-calf, and she preferred the most profoundly ancient of black shoes.

But for all of this,… I loved her.

And I think she loved me as much. For she certainly doted on this little twit of a boy. And nothing was too good for her little man, (though to the casual observer, one might have thought me a member of the other gender.) For my face was dotted with the opaque beginnings of freckles, and “black and white” photos

from that time period portray me with an array of dark, almost auburn locks which would not be cut for the space of another year.

And “center stage,” like the proverbial elephant in the living room, was a baby grand piano, (or at least it seemed so large and imposing at the time.) For all I know now, it might have been one of those old upright style pianos. But nonetheless, this largest of musical instruments was the focus of my attention. For I would not be denied, (and Mrs. Hisey had no intention of denying me access to this tempestuous piece of furniture.)

I think I spent hours banging out the “absence of a tune” on those old “ivories and ebonies.” And my benefactress clapped her hands, and sang along the best she could to a childish melody which existed for a moment, and then vanished like inexpensive perfume in the night air. But there was nothing cheap about the time we shared together. And as I reflect on those magical moments now, a singular emotion overtakes me, and

… my eyes well up with tears.

And one or two course down my cheeks.

I miss my old friend.

She lingers in my consciousness. She beckons from the gloom of an almost Victorian old home which succumbed to the wrecking ball a half century past. But its brick and mortar and glass is once again substantial in my mind, and all the laughter and gladness we shared together has once again been granted substance.

And I am privileged to visit there again

… if only for a little while.

On one occasion, (or so my mother tells me) apparently early on in Mrs. Hisey’s tenure as my childhood sitter, I was dropped off with the dear lady, and my parents proceeded to the neighborhood Ritz to take in a movie.

(Yes, they were making “talkies” by this time. I’m not quite that old.)

It seems daddy and mama had hardly sat down, and the movie had only just begun when my mother began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of this all too infrequent outing.

Movies might have been 35 cents a head at the time, and no doubt my dear sitter earned all of a quarter an hour, but this sort of expense was near and dear to a roofer who earned all of 8 dollars a day. But the anxiety which registered on my mother’s face would not be denied, and almost lit up the dark theater, at least for the familiar figure sitting next to her, and they decided to forfeit the price of their hard won tickets.

(For all I know those other patrons are still sitting there taking in a triple feature. … Well no, probably not.)

Hurrying out the door, and into their (not so) new, nor trustworthy car, my parents rushed back to Mrs H.’s house, knowing that I had either fallen out of my highchair and broken my proboscis, or “merely” swallowed rat poison.

I would like to have been a fly on the wall that day, since I admit an altogether inability to remember the event, but I have been told that my parents barely knocked on the door before rushing into my aged friend’s front parlor.  

They found me prostrate on the piano bench lam-blasting the ivories with one hand, and eating a peanut butter sandwich with the other, while Mrs. Hisey sat in her rocking chair darning a hole in an old comforter.

I think peals of laughter must have echoed off the parlor walls that day.

from "Snapshots of a Life"

by Bill McDonald, PhD

GET IT TOGETHER, DOUG

 4086

I was watching a Tampa Bay Rays game against the Arizona Diamondbacks today. One of the announcers, Doug Waechter, a former Major League Baseball pitcher began to reminisce about being on the mound one day.

"I remember I was having a hard time, and throwing some pretty bad pitches. One batter after another managed to get on base or hit a homerun. I could hear every word of our team's fans in the seats behind the catcher. 

"Suddenly, one little girl, she couldn't have been any older than ten, shouted, 

'Get it together, Doug!!!'

"Well, I just about lost it. I stepped off the mound a moment and collected myself, and then stepped back into the pitcher's circle."

I think we've all "been there." And I think we've all been blessed to have someone encourage or admonish us, not for selfish motives, or in spite, but simply to help us get "back in the swing."

The foregoing story impacted me a great deal. I think I will remember it every time someone encourages or admonishes me, or I take the opportunity to encourage or admonish someone whom God sets in my pathway.

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE PhD LEVEL RODENT. Pts. 1-2

 4085

Pt. 1

About a year ago, we began to experience the presence of mice (plural) in our home. I began to see the fuzzy gray little things near our dog's water and feeding bowls in the kitchen. I never saw more than one at a time, but the difference in their size and color overcame any illusion than only one of them existed.

You would have to know me. I simply hate killing anything. If I see a roach, there is a fair chance I will grab it with a tissue and put it outside; (rather than pick up a shoe and murder it on the spot).

Ultimately, however, I knew I had to do something. I mean we move and live and breathe in this house, and there is absolutely no room for ra.., I mean mice here.

As a result, I bought some sticky paper designed to trap and immobilize the little devils. And since I had seen them in a tall floor to ceiling cabinet where we keep our canned and dry goods, I put a couple of strips of the stuff on the top shelf.

And in short order, in just the next day or two, I found one of those squeaking, nasty little beasts firmly affixed to the sticky paper. I admit I attempted to remove him with the intention of turning him loose in the back yard. Well, my friends, by now he was one with the paper, and there was no possibility of removing him. I will spare you the details, but at this point I was forced to dispatch the little critter. This occurred twice.

It is convenient to think that there was never more than three of the furry beasts in my house. At least, at that point I was under the impression that only one remained in our home. 

Strange, it was as if that one had learned from the mistakes of the previous two mice; because try as I will, I could not trap the third one. He avoided the sticky paper, and he similarly avoided the rat traps which I had strategically placed in and about the kitchen.

And I can tell you, dear readers, I began to experience a begrudging admiration for the little critter. He was obviously not your average house mouse. And I, (much to my chagrin) began to go easy on the tiny fella.

For you see, it seemed such a travesty to me to kill such an obviously intelligent little guy, and so I began to set a live trap, which someone had previously given me, in front of the stove; (a location from which I had seen him coming and going).

All to no avail.

"Tiny Tom" was just too smart to fall for it. And he never did.

Pt. 2

As a counselor I speak about "tipping points," (or crises or catalysts) which many of us seem to need to bring us back to reality. In this case, my tipping point came when my wife awoke one day to find the top of her zippered cloth purse torn to shreds. She had left a couple of peppermints in the purse, and it was apparent that "Tiny Tom" was ready for a nice dessert.

This, my friend, was "the final straw that broke the camel's back."

There was only one thing left to do. Our daughter had previously offered to give us her "Maine Coon" house cat. At this point in our journey, (and though I have never liked cats), we took her up on her offer. Milo became a member of our family.

And without any question, the large yellow feline was immediately aware of the presence of the mouse. Milo began to surveil the kitchen, and sit for minutes in front of the stove; especially at night when the lights were out. And to his credit, but more so to the credit of the furry gray critter, the latter has only made his presence known once that I am aware of. 

I was standing in the kitchen a few weeks ago when suddenly the (somewhat larger than I remember) little beast ran past my feet, and into the recesses of the space behind the stove. As much as I had grudgingly began to respect the nasty rodent for his innate intelligence, and even feel a bit of empathy for him, by this time I would have gladly stomped him; had I been prepared for his appearance.

Afterward

As a pastoral counselor, mentor and writer, I tend to spiritualize everything. Well, not everything, but lots of things. I look for the lessons which life has to teach us. And I think the foregoing story definitely qualifies. 

I think as Christians, it is too easy to tolerate not only what we might classify as "minor sin," but to invest our time and energy on things which are unprofitable to our spiritual growth, or merely preoccupy us, and keep us from fulfilling the plans our Lord dreamed for us before He made the worlds.

And whereas there's nothing all that good about that mouse of which I have alluded, I found myself marveling at his intelligence, and even empathizing with his plight in life. I was too close to just "settling." While all the while, the fuzzy little critter was making a general nuisance of himself, and potentially spreading a multitude of germs to man and beast, alike.

And I think there is a correlation between the story I have told, above, and the foolish, and even worthless things which tempt and preoccupy us, and even the way we squander away our precious time; which in the end we have so little of.

I think all believers would do well to reflect on these things, and make a few mid-course corrections, as the Holy Spirit leads us. 

In the meantime, I never have caught that nasty little rodent, but he has definitely developed a talent for remaining out of sight.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

AND GOD LAUGHED. Pts. 1-2

4084

Pt. 1

It was May of 2018, and my wife and I were vacationing in Ireland, Northern Ireland, and Scotland. 

Strangely enough, our two week tour happened to include so many of the locations where my own immigrate ancestors once lived. Of course, I was thrilled to walk where they once walked, and see the mountains, rivers and forests which they once saw and enjoyed. While we were there, I kept a daily journal which I titled, "Returning in their Place." (Of course, the impetus for the title was the realization that few if any of my "great great's" ever found a way to return to the countries they left behind.

Not long after our arrival in Dublin, we visited an old Irish farmhouse in Killarney where we enjoyed a nice meal, and where my wife suggested I "sing a song for my supper;" as it were. And since so much like my ancestors, I doubted I would ever return again, I proceeded to sing an acapella version of "Amazing Grace." (And I think I did a tolerably good job of it).

Afterwards, one of the guys in our tour group told me my song was the biggest surprise he'd experienced thus far in the tour; perhaps because I am, by nature, somewhat of an introvert. (It was such a joy to sing The Hymn of the Christian Church that close to where it was written).

Having completed our tour of Ireland and Northern Ireland, we boarded a ferry and sailed across the Irish Sea to Scotland. And while I loved Ireland and Northern Ireland, my heart has always been in Scotland since I have such a human heritage there; more so than in the countries we had previously visited on our trip.

It was wonderful to experience eerily beautiful Glencoe, site of the massacre of the MacDonald's, and Edinburgh, from whence one of my ancient grandfathers was forcibly removed by the British, (and made his new home in Connecticut). And I will never forget the Isle of Skye where my 3x great Grandmother was born, and resided, 'til she moved to this great country, and settled in Georgia. 

Pt. 2

I can tell you it felt like "Old Home Week." So much so that I asked our tour guide if I could sing a tribute in memory of my dearly departed ancestors. (As it fell together, I should have "left well enough alone"). Well, Deanne put me off a couple of times, as she wasn't keen on me standing in the aisle of the bus while it was moving. However, after we rolled across the bridge which separates the Isle of Skye from the Scottish mainland, she gave me the go ahead.

"Listen everyone, Bill wants to sing another song for us. Do your stuff, Bill."

And while we were in Scotland by this time, I had chosen to sing "Danny Boy." (There is some disagreement about where it was written, but it is generally thought the author was an Englishman). At any rate, the song commemorates the love of an Irish mother for her military son who has gone off to war, and her expectation that she will pass from this life before he returns.

I thanked Deanne, I rose to sing, and took my place in the middle of the aisle. And just as she had done in Killarney, my wife aimed her smart phone at me and began videoing.

I began to sing, and I was moderately happy with the way things were proceeding.

"Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,
It's you, it's you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow..."

And now I felt "it" coming, and "it" wasn't a good "it." There was no way I would be able to hit the highest note in the song.

"It's I'll be... there" (screech) 

I had failed to begin my song on a key in which I could compensate for the "there" word. It was awful. I had little or no choice but to finish the song. I sang the last two lines of the first verse, and skipped the second verse entirely.

"in sunshine or in shadow

Oh, Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so!"

And while five years have come and gone, I have never had the heart to watch the video of my debacle of a song. But I have little doubt my face was beet red, as I made my way back to my seat, and sat down. (Funny how people are prone to remember one mistake, and how it negates everything good which preceded it).

Afterward

I think God rejoices when His children exercise the talents which He has instilled within them; even when they make a few mistakes and experience a few mishaps along the way. And I think He probably laughs with us when we make the kind of mistakes I have recounted here; just doing what we were designed to do.

But, dear readers, I can tell you, if He laughed that day, He laughed first, and probably last; since I am yet to find any humor in the experience which I have shared with you.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

NOT AS THOSE WHO HAVE NO HOPE

 4083

Pt. 1

"Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him." (1st Thess. 4:13-14)

My father in law had passed away just days earlier, and my wife and I walked into the funeral home for his "home going" service, As we passed the first funeral chapel, we noticed a lone elderly woman leaning over an open casket; prior to the public viewing. (We learned later that the dearly departed was her middle aged daughter).

Suddenly, the older lady emitted a loud scream, and she continued to scream for a full minute. Thankfully, my father in law's funeral service had not yet begun, as only a thin moveable partition separated the two chapels. (My brother in law, a pastor, indicated he planned to step into the other chapel, and encourage her).

And I could not help but remember that well known passage of scripture.

"You do not grieve like those who have no hope."

Now, I can't speak authoritatively about the dear little woman, nor judge her. I have no idea how or why her daughter passed away, nor whether either of them knew the Lord. 

However, the elderly lady's abject grief certainly accented the truth of Paul the Apostle's admonition about the hope which we have in our Lord Jesus Christ. We have been assured that we will see our believing loved ones again. And what an amazing, blessed assurance it is.

Pt. 2

I attended a memorial service yesterday for a young man who had preceded his father and mother. 

As my wife and I were watching the prepared photos on the overhead screen, a sixty something year old man walked down the aisle and stopped next to us. He grabbed Jean's right hand while looking back and forth between us... and smiling and serenading us with an unfamiliar hymn. Suddenly, I recognized the man from the screen photos.

"Oh, hi. You're 'John's' dad."

And since we had never met, I ended up explaining how I had recognized him. "Mr. Johnson" was introduced to the audience partway through the memorial service, and he shared a few phone messages he'd saved of his son.

As the memorial service continued, first a friend and then a relative would share stories about "John." Ultimately, the pastor introduced his mother. "Gloria" told several humorous stories about her son's boyhood years; which resulted in peals of laughter. Of course, there was no doubt how deeply loved "John" had been, and is, and how his presence would be missed.

As the memorial service concluded, and as my wife and I walked back to our car, I could not help but compare these two funeral experiences for young adults; which I have recounted here. While there is nothing joyous about the passing of someone who has not yet lived out half of their appointed days, Thank God as believers we do not grieve as those who have no hope. One of my great great grandfathers, a Primitive Baptist pastor, lived to the ripe old age of 108, but even his life was like a fog in the morning when compared to the length and breath and depth of eternity. I expect to meet him one day.

My friends, this is not all there is. The writers of the New Testament and our Lord, Himself have guaranteed we will see our believing loved ones again. We grieve not as those who have no hope.

"But this life... is passing away, but he who does the will of God endures forever." (1st John 2:17)

by William McDonald, PhD

STAY ENCOURAGED!

4082

My wife and I attended a relatively large church in Tampa, Bethel Temple, during my tenure as a personnel clerk at MacDill Air Force Base. We had taken advantage of several nightly revival meetings, and as the final service concluded Pastor Matheny invited the congregation to ‘q up’ and say our ‘farewells’ to the visiting evangelist.

While I have long since forgotten the name of the itinerant preacher, I will never forget one especially peculiar trait which he displayed on a recurring basis. For you see, at times he would get ‘so wound up’ that it seemed he needed to release his emotional mainspring. And thus, after this admonition or that bit of spiritual insight he’d kick out his right leg like he was punting a football, and shout, ‘Hallelujah.’

Be that as it may, as I finally neared the somewhat quirky evangelist, and reached out to shake his hand, he looked me in the eyes, and offered me what was perhaps the two most singular words in all of my life.

“Stay Encouraged!”

Though almost half a century has come and gone since that evening, and though this dear man may have, by now, passed from the earth, I have never forgotten his words, and they have buoyed me up, and afforded me courage when I might have, otherwise, simply given up. 

And I often share these words with others who God places in my pathway, and who seem to need them so badly.

And I think there is no more fitting manner in which to conclude what I have begun, nor anything more crucial I could offer than to pass that proverbial baton on to you; the one I received when I shook the preacher’s hand.

“Stay Encouraged!”

LITTLE MOTHER'S CLASS

 4081

I heard a funny one in which a pastor was going to teach a women's class on the issues of Motherhood, and planned to call it "The Little Mother's Class." He informed the person who wrote the weekly church bulletin, and allowed her to come up with her own phraseology. The next Sunday he, and the other parishioners opened their bulletins only to read, "The pastor is offering a Little Mother's Class beginning next Sunday at 9am. Any woman interested in becoming a little mother should meet with him in his study that morning." (An unfortunate choice of words which was quickly rewritten for use in future bulletins)

911 & THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE

 4080

911. Nine One One. We have only to see it enumerated, written or spoken for us to conjure up fresh memories of that horrendous day. It’s odd; 911 used to mean something else to us. I have actually wondered if the terrorists chose that day based on the emergency phone number it represents.

Ground Zero. We don’t have to close our eyes to see it looming before us. We can almost walk its artificial valley in our mind.

Everything changed that day, perhaps at a more traumatic and persistent level than December 7th, “the day that will live in infamy,” or November 22nd, the infamous date of Kennedy’s assassination.

 (November 22nd was the only day I stayed home sick from high school in 1963. I don’t know how I managed to choose that day. But I’ll never forget Walter Cronkite, and his memorable broadcast).

I was also watching TV on “911.” Oddity of oddities, I was coloring my wife’s hair. And then it happened!

Hundreds of firemen and policemen died trying to do the impossible. They embraced that well-worn adage; “We have to go out. We don’t have to come back.” One particular father’s son didn’t come back; at least not alive.

We see the elderly man trudging down the dusty boulevard, stumbling occasionally, and picking his way around the rubble of unknown objects. He has a determined look on his face, and his jaw is set. We notice his apparel, for he is dressed like one of the dozens of other men around him. He tells a reporter that he is a retired fire chief. He has been away from his life’s work for nearly a decade. But fate has called to him, and he has responded to that Call. He holds a little spade in his hand, and we begin to realize the task he has embraced.

“My son is under that rubble, and I come here daily. I come
here to dig. I have been digging on this site for ten days, and I will continue to dig ‘til every fallen hero leaves this awful place.”

He thinks he knows where to dig. At least he’s digging in the general area where his Johnny “laid it all down forever.”

He has another son. That son is also a fireman, and on that day of days, James had spent the night at Ground Zero. He had slept under the stars, as if by some means Johnny could know that he was there for him.

The father continues to speak:

“We never leave our heroes on the field of their labor. We find them, and we carry them away. We cannot leave them here.”

The father digs in the heat of the day, and beneath the glistening white moon. He bends his back for 16, no 18 hours a day. He sleeps in fits and starts. He is a man on a mission.

Exactly three months to the day after 911, Johnny is found and identified. It would be fitting to think that his Dad found him ‘neath those tons of twisted steel and glass, but that’s not how it happened. But Dad and Brother honored their Son and Brother by taking him off the field of his labor. James may have remembered the title of that old song, “He’s not heavy, he’s my brother.”

Johnny was given a hero’s funeral. Father, brother and his own little son helped carry him to his final resting place. We see them sadly walking, struggling a bit with the casket, marching cadence to a bag piper’s mournful melody.

And I might quickly remind you that several fathers were on the field, digging for their lost children, and several old men “stayed the course” ‘til their boys were found.

We can learn from that father’s determination; his ultimate dedication to an almost impossible task.

Those who come to me for marital counseling are so reminiscent of “those who dig.” I watch them as they “dig,” and I can quickly determine how precious is the jewel for which they dig. Some go at it with fervor, but tire quickly. Others seem lazy and unconvinced of the necessity. While many lack any real enthusiasm, and don’t remind me of those who search for “the pearl of great price.”

For there are those who have the opportunity to dig, not for something dead and ready for burial, but for something wounded; something able to be resurrected, if given a chance.

And there will be those couples who strive together to find “the pearl of great price,” to lift up their fallen marriage, to apply the salve of healing, to apply the bandages of understanding and insight, to resurrect something that is nigh on to dying; that good thing which has a chance to live again.

by William McDonald, PhD

THE HEART OF FRANK SINATRA

    

    4079

While I can't speak for every aspect, activity and action of Frank Sinatra, he apparently exhibited the kind of empathy at times for which Elvis was also known.

Sinatra had just walked out of a Las Vegas venue where he had appeared, and his lead act had preceded him to the same limo. After they had gotten into the limo, "Jerry" noticed someone outside who seemed to be signaling the famous crooner.

"Frank, I think that woman wants to talk to you."

Sinatra peered through the back window and responded,

"Well, I'll just have to see what she wants."

Now, the well known singer stepped out, looked down at the non-descript lady, and said,

"What can I do for you, ma'am?"

The middle-aged woman looked a little sheepish, and replied,

"My husband is very sick, and I think if you'd sign an autograph for him, it would cheer him up."

Sinatra seemed to tear up slightly, and he pulled out a pen from his coat pocket, and signed a piece of paper the lady passed to him. Smiling, she thanked him, and turned to leave.

However, Frank was not done.

"Uhmmm, wait a minute, Miss."

And with that, he undid each of his cufflinks, and pressed them into her hands.

"Take these to your husband. Give him my best. I hope he feels better soon."

Getting back into the vehicle, Frank Sinatra leaned back into the seat and gave some instructions to the driver.

Now, Jerry spoke again.

"Frank, what in the world were you thinking? Those were your favorite cufflinks. You paid $5,000 for them!"

Sinatra's response was unexpected.

"Jerry, we're just renting."

The young man seemed confused.

"I don't understand, Frank."

"We're just renting a space here. When I leave outta here, someone else will live in my house. Someone else will swim in my pool. Someone else will inherit all of my money."

(and)

"If I can't give away a few things, the many things God has blessed me with are totally worthless."

****************

Recently, I also heard another story which involved Frank Sinatra. It was the mid-50's and while black entertainers appeared in white establishments. including hotel venues, they were required to stay in other facilities and eat elsewhere. Nat King Cole had just finished singing at a well-known Vegas location, and was preparing to depart the premises. However, Frank Sinatra intervened and invited Cole to have dinner with him. Of course, the hotel manager immediately nay-sayed the idea. Not taking "no" for an answer, Sinatra threatened to cancel his own ongoing act there, unless the talented black vocalist was allowed to dine with him. Guess who won? (You're right). The two men enjoyed an enjoyable dinner together that evening.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

All reactions:

1Jaclyn Travis Wilson

OLDER THAN YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE

 4078

I came across a bit of insight a few months ago which I had never considered before... The egg from which you were created was already present in the womb of your mother when she was a fetus in the womb of her mother, your grandmother. As a result, you are, in essence, as old as your mother. My mother was born in 1930. The egg from which I was created was inside her when she was born. Given that mentality, this would make me 93 years old, rather than 74 years of age. Rather than 74 years of age, my wife would be 108 years old.

DON'T TELL THE DOG!

 4077

About 20 years ago, as my little Shih Tzu, Buddy, was aging and approaching her ultimate demise, I looked over at her, and asked a question.

"Buddy, when you cross the Rainbow Bridge, would you like to be freeze dried?"

(Freeze drying is a new fangled technology which will, no doubt, vie for first place in the field of the permanent preservation of an animal. Prior to this, the only viable option was taxidermy). 

At any rate, when I asked Buddy that particular question,... she looked at me like I had slapped her! And then she turned her head away from me.

When Buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge, I followed through with her obvious wishes. I DIDN'T freeze dry her; (although I would have loved preserving her, and setting her in the corner of my living room).

One would think I would have learned from this experience. (I didn't).

Tonight,when my wife was heading off to bed, along with our precious Papillon, Toby, and Jean and I were exchanging "good nights" she looked over at our little pooch, and said,

"I can see his cataracts on the surface of his eyes."

(Toby is 9 now, and we have been informed that he has cataracts, and his eyesight has been compromised).

Just before my wife headed off to bed, and while Toby was sitting in the living room with us, Jean and I had been talking about our pet's advancing age, and how I didn't want to adopt another dog after he passed, as we will be nearing 80 by that time.

But as my wife spoke about Toby's cataracts, I made the statement,

"Well, we could have the cataracts removed, but it is an expensive proposition, and we're not in a position to do it"

(and)

"You know how I feel about blind dogs"

(and)

"I just can't do blind dogs."

It was then that Toby buried her head in the pillow she was lying on. And then, he momentarily looked up at me, and stared me down.

Folks, don't tell the dog. Never, ever tell the dog!

by William McDonald, PhD

THE WIT OF WILL ROGERS

 

4076

Will Rogers, who died in a 1935 plane crash in Alaska with bush pilot Wiley Post, was one of  the Greatest political country/cowboy sages this country has ever known.  Some of his sayings are:

>> 1. Never slap a man who's chewing tobacco.
>>
>> 2. Never kick a cow chip on a hot day.
>>
>> 3. There are two theories to arguing with a woman. Neither works.
>>
>> 4. Never miss a good chance to shut up.
>>
>> 5. Always drink upstream from the herd.
>>
>> 6. If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.
>>
>> 7. The quickest way to double your money is to fold it and put it back into your pocket.
>>
>> 8. There are three kinds of men:
>>    The ones that learn by reading.
>>    The few who learn by observation.
>>    The rest of them have to pee on the electric fence and find out for themselves.
>>
>> 9. Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.
>>
>> 10. If you're riding' ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it's still there.
>>
>> 11. Lettin' the cat outta’ the bag is a whole lot easier'n puttin' it back.
>>
>> 12. After eating an entire bull, a mountain lion felt so good he started roaring.
>> He kept it up until a hunter came along and shot him.
     The moral: When you're full of bull, keep your mouth shut.
>>
>>
>> ABOUT GROWING OLDER...
>>
>> First ~ Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it.
>>
>> Second ~ The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.
>>
>> Third ~ Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me; I want people to know 'why' I look this way. I've traveled a long way, and some of the roads weren't paved.
>>
>> Fourth ~ When you are dissatisfied and would like to go back to youth, think of Algebra.
>>
>> Fifth ~ You know you are getting old when everything either dries up or leaks.
>>
>> Sixth ~ I don't know how I got over the hill without getting to the top.
>>
>> Seventh ~ One of the many things no one tells you about aging is that it's such a nice change from being young.
>>
>> Eighth ~ One must wait until evening to see how splendid the day has been.
>>
>> Ninth ~ Being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable and relaxed.
>>
>> Tenth ~ Long ago, when men cursed and beat the ground with sticks, it was called witchcraft.   Today it's called golf.
>>
>>
>> And, finally ~ If you don't learn to laugh at trouble, you won't have anything to laugh at when you're old.

 

THE GIFT OUTRIGHT

 

4075

Back in 1961, I recall sitting in Mr. Ball's 6th grade class. One day our teacher walked over to a black and white television set, raised the rabbit ears, and clicked it on. January 20th dawned bright and bold, though the winter had not loosened its grip on the nation's Capital and the celebrants who surrounded the nation's Capitol Building. President Elect John F. Kennedy wore an ankle length formal trench coat that day, as he prepared to take the reigns of power from the outgoing President Dwight D. Eisenhower; who was similarly attired. The nation's preeminent poet, Robert Frost, rose to speak. In all of the decades which have followed that prestigious day, I was sure he read those memorable lines of his "The Road Not Taken." But apparently, my memory had failed me. I know now that he had actually chosen a different poem, "The Gift Outright." As he made his way through this particular bit of writing, the blinding sunlight and his failing eyesight made it impossible to finish; at least in the manner those surrounding him, and his TV audience might have expected. The aging poet looked up from his script, and began to quote the lines from memory. I think when he concluded, Mr. Frost must have smiled a somewhat whimsical smile, and made his way back to his seat.

by William McDonald, PhD

HE'S GOT MAMA DOING IT

4074

I heard a story on the Elvis radio channel today which made me laugh.

A 70 something year old Elvis fan told the story of the time she and her sister planned to watch "the King of Rock 'n Roll" on "The Ed Sullivan Show."

Before the "really big shoe (show)" began, her dad told her,

"I don't like that guy. Too much shaking and grinding. I'm telling you Jenny, if you girls begin screaming, and girating, I'm going to turn the TV off!"

Well, in short order Ed Sullivan introduced Elvis, and he began to sing, "You Ain't Nothing But a Hound Dog." Of course, he was moving his hips, and two stepping as only Elvis could.

The girls were trying their best to be quiet so their dad wouldn't turn off the TV. However, Elvis had hardly sung two lines when... Mama began to scream, wave her hands and dance!

Daddy shook his head and walked out of the living room.

Bill McDonald, PhD

LET THEM GO - "Madea"

 4073

“This is what I learned in all of my years on this earth. If somebody wants to walk out of your life… Let them go. Especially if you know you have done everything you can. You’ve been the best man or woman you can be and they still want to go, let ‘em go. Whatever they’re running after, they’ll see what they had in a minute, but by then it will be too late. Half of these people you’re crying about, you’re worrying about, two or three years from now, you won’t even remember their last name. How many times you’ve seen folks say, ‘What the **** was I thinking? What was wrong with me? I must have been lonely as **** to hook up with you.’

Let folks go, son. Some come for a lifetime. Some come for a season. You got to know which is which. And you gonna always mess up when you mix them season of people up with lifetime expectations. You got people who have gotten married to people they were only supposed to be with for a season. They got married to people they were only supposed to be with for a season and they wonder why they have so much hell in their life. That was a person who was supposed to teach you one thing. You didn’t know it so you just fell in love and now you wonder why you don’t have peace nowhere you go.

No, no. Listen. I put everybody that comes into my life in the category of a tree. Some people are like leaves on a tree. The wind blows, they’re over here. It blows the other way, they’re over there. They’re unstable. Seasons change. They wither and die. They’re gone. That’s alright. Most people in the world are like that. They’re just there to take from the tree. They aren’t going to do anything but take and give shade every now and then. That’s all they can do. Don’t get mad at people like that. That’s who they are. They were put on the earth to be a leaf. Some people are like a branch on the tree. You gotta be careful of those branches too. They’ll fool you. They make you think they’re a good friend and they’re real strong, but you step out there on them, and they break and they leave you high and dry.

But if you find you two or three people in your life just like the roots at the bottom of that tree, you are blessed ‘cause them the kind of people that ain’t going nowhere. They ain’t worried about being seen. Don’t nobody have to know they know you. Don’t have to know what they’re doing for you. But if those roots weren’t there, that tree couldn’t live. A tree can have a hundred million branches, but there’s only a few roots down at the bottom. I’m telling you son, when you get some roots, hang onto them. But the rest of them, let it go. Let folks go.

Nobody said it will be easy, but it gets easier when you learn how to love yourself. When you get to the point in your life where you look at people and you go, ‘Okay, wait a minute. You or me. You will make a decision.’ I’ve never in my life told nobody, ‘Don’t bother me. Don’t talk to me.’ But what I do, I say, ‘Look. This thing you’re doing right here. That’s gonna cause a problem. You gotta fix that. Cause if we’re gonna be friends, we gonna be cool, you’re gonna fix that. And if you don’t, we’re gonna have an issue.’ If you see somebody fix it, or even trying to fix it that’s somebody that cares. Keep them people around. That’s a leaf that’s trying to grow up and be something else. You understand?

But if you tell somebody ‘what you doing is hurting me, you need to stop,’ but they keep doing it, they don’t care. Move on. Let them go. No matter how much it hurt, let them go. And it will get easier. Every day it will get easier and easier, you just gotta make it through. You need to learn to be by yourself. People have to learn how to be alone. I don’t understand all these people who pray, ‘Lord, where is my man? Lord, where is my woman?’ That is crazier as ****. If you don’t know how to be by yourself, what you gonna do with somebody else? Stop praying about it. Shut up and wait. Go work on you. ****, that’s what that time is for to get yourself together. I’d rather be in the corner by myself with a puppet and a goldfish, and be happy than to be sitting around with somebody in my house, and I’m wondering ‘what the **** they there for?’

You would be surprised at what people put up with just to have somebody to say they love them. I don’t understand it. I can’t live in dysfunction. I’m sorry. I’ve done come through too much hell and high water to let you come up in my adult life when I’m supposed to be at peace and give me all kind of hell. Only two places on this earth you gonna have peace. The grave and your house. And if you can’t wake up in your house and have peace, something’s wrong. I’m sorry.”

(“Madea” – Tyler Perry)

 

CONVENIENCE STORE PSYCHOLOGIST

 4072

I experienced one of those cravings for a Coke tonight on my way home from church. My wife and I have been trying to cut back on sugary, carbonated drinks. And rather than keep a “private stock” in the frig, I have been stopping by a convenience store when I “just gotta have it.”

And thus, I stopped at one of these very convenient stores about a mile from my house. Finishing a text to one of my former university students, I stepped out of my car, walked in the door, made my way back to the beverage cooler, and selected three sixteen ounce cans; two Cokes and one Pepsi.

Retracing my steps, I stopped by the candy rack, and picked out a Snickers bar. Finally, I stepped up to the counter, pulled out a ten dollar bill, and prepared to pay for my bounty. Within seconds, a late sixty or early seventy something year old lady strode quickly from the back room, and up to yours truly.

As the clerk “rang me up,” I remarked,

“You are a brave lady.”

(and)

“The Lord must be riding with you.”

Without so much as a smile or nod of the head, or quizzical look denoting a lack of understanding, she replied,

“Yes, He is. I love and serve Him.”

(and)

“I have been held up five times; with a gun, a knife, a hammer, and I didn’t stop to see what the other two were holding in their hands.”

(and)

“Years ago, I studied psychology and sociology.”

With this, I mentioned that I had studied the same curriculum, and that I was a counselor.

Pt. 2

The lady behind the counter continued.

“Well, I planned to become a psychologist, but I had three children to raise.”

(It is important to understand that a Doctor of Psychology must complete 8-10 years of undergrad and graduate studies).

The clerk finished her brief monologue.

“I’ve done this work for 50 years.”

(And it occurred to me that this dear woman had begun her present line of work the year before I enlisted in the Air Force during the Vietnam War)!

I was almost speechless when the aging lady behind the convenience store counter told me that she had once been in the process of preparing herself to be a psychologist. But I was equally flabbergasted when she said she had stood behind a convenience store counter for fifty years!

Having regained my composure, I spoke again.

“Well, what matters is whether you are making a difference in lives. And I have to think you have done that for a very long time.”

Now it was my momentary friend’s turn to be speechless. It was like she was reflecting on what she might have been, and how her life had fallen together.

(and)

It was like in those few seconds which transpired between bagging my soft drinks, and me walking out the door, she found herself thinking of those fifty years standing behind a convenience store counter, and wondering whether she had really made any difference in the lives with which she had to do.

In one case, it made me sad that this dear convenience store clerk had never fulfilled her dream to become a psychologist. But in another case, I like to think I encouraged and affirmed her for the gifts with which God has endowed her, and the words and actions wherewith He has given her to make a difference in the lives He has set in her pathway for such a long time.

 by William McDonald, PhD