Musings

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Write Me a Story

Long ago, when I was a young man,

my father said to me...

"Norman, you like to write stories."

And I said, "Yes, I do."

Then he said,

"Someday, when you're ready...

you might tell our family story.

Only then will you understand

what happened and why."

These opening lines from the movie, “A River Runs Through It” are rather like something my dad once said to me.

“Royce, you’re the literary person in the family. It would be great if, someday, you would write a non-fiction novel about our immigrant ancestor, Isham McDonald.”

My father was an amateur genealogist. I say “amateur” because I’m uncertain what makes someone a professional genealogist. Perhaps they are the kind who get paid to research other people’s family trees. Of course, there’s more than one way to “get paid.” There is such an emotional satisfaction derived from family research. At least, this is my experience.

My father left such a rich legacy of written, verbal and visual resources; the result of the expenditure of some significant time and energy.

“Henry” (for that was his name) realized the momentary nature of a life, and like too few of his ancestors decided to do something about it, and “leave something behind” for his descendants.

He compiled a body of genealogical research which comprised hundreds of pages of text and photos of generations of McDonald descendants. And this was done in a day and time when the internet was still a good theory, and research was the product of hundreds of hours spent in old courthouses and interacting with knowledgeable human beings. And in order to assure his work would be something more than finite, he duplicated this body of research many times over, and placed these volumes in the hands of selected family members, among his siblings and their children; who would, he hoped, eventually do the same.

Over the course of several years my dad taped a verbal account of his childhood and early adulthood in Georgia and Florida, and his service during WWII. And in order to preserve the outdated audio tapes, I had them converted to cassette disks, and like my father, entrusted copies to selected members of the family. (As I listen to these recordings, it is as though I have been given the momentary grace to enjoy some essence of his presence again).

During his latter years my dad developed his skills as a landscape artist. And in this case I might rightly refer to him as a “professional,” since he displayed his murals in restaurants and banks throughout the area, and sold dozens of his works. (Several of his best paintings adorn the walls of my own home). And I have so often reflected on the hundreds of paintings he completed, and where they might be today.

Though I have written over a dozen (currently unpublished) fictional and non-fictional volumes, (my own attempt at “leaving something behind”) to date my literary contribution to family research has been limited to dozens of one page biographies, and a couple of short stage presentations. And to be fair, though (as I alluded) my father hoped I might, I have no earthly idea how to complete a full-length non-fictional account of the life of my immigrant grandfather, Isham; given the fact that I have all of six or eight pages of text concerning his military life in Revolutionary South Carolina, his involvement in the Indian Wars, and his, subsequent, family life in mid-19^th century Georgia.

Nevertheless, I have picked up the figurative mantle which my father left behind, and thrown it over my own shoulders, and I believe he would be proud of my efforts to emulate the things he was doing while he still had time to do such things. There can be little doubt that the spirit of my father lives on in me since I am at least equally possessed (and obsessed) with the realization that my life is momentary, and whatever I have to do I have to do now. I carry on in his stead, and I’m hopeful another will step forward to pick up my own mantle when I pass from this sphere.

Not long before his own death, my dad and I traveled to South Carolina by car. We sat in the living room of a ninety year old man who, from his childhood, had waded in the streams and hunted raccoons in that area. This spry old fella directed us to a particular culvert under a nearby road, and recounted that, as a boy, as he was hunting a raccoon or bobcat, he had fallen into what was then a rushing river. Bidding him “adieu,” my father and I drove the two or three miles to this location, and spent time reminiscing about the primitive, but no doubt, fulfilling and vivacious lives of our worthy ancestors; those in whose footsteps we tread.

To say it was a rewarding trip would have been an understatement. My father and I connected with one another like we hadn’t in the half century which proceeded our journey. I will always be grateful for the opportunity we made for ourselves, and the memories we created together.

My father has gone on to his rightful reward now, and I must, one day, join him. I believe my dad would be proud of my efforts, as I have most certainly been of his.

By William McDonald, PhD. (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 30. Copyright pending

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The Tale of Three Men

My father founded an exterminating company in the small town of Bartow, Florida in the second half of this past century, and by the time he retired in the early 90’s I think he’d terminated every ant, roach, termite and rat for 500 square miles. And in so doing became fast friends with their intolerant caretakers.

My dad was one of those characters you never forget, and whose name lives on in the community which he loved and in which he served. More times than I care to recount strangers have told me,

“Your last name is familiar. Are you Henry McDonald’s son?”

(or)

“I knew a fella once with that name. He was my exterminator for years. We wouldn’t have used anyone else to kill our bugs.”

(or)

“Your dad was always fair and square with me. And he was quite a guy all around.”

To which I have often simply responded,

“You know he’s gone now. He was a good father. And we miss him.”

Speaking of those who have gone on to their reward, I attended a memorial service today for a man named Roger whom I never had the pleasure of knowing. And if it seems strange that I would attend a service for someone I didn’t know, it may be important to mention that I know his brother.

I suppose Bob worked for my dad for “a good” twenty years, and to say he performed his job adequately would have been an understatement. And thus with anyone who procures a position in a private company, and gives as good as they get, and more, with time Bob gained my father’s comradery and respect, and yes, even

… the love of a father.

And so you might not think it strange that during the course of his employment Bob made it clear that when my father was ready to retire, he would very much like to purchase, “McDonald Exterminators.” Upon which, they’d shared a handshake, (and perhaps a frosty mug, as well).

Of course, any of my father’s four children might well have carried on in his name, (as did the daughter of his own sister; who was his closest competitor in the trade). But each of us had our own plans, and it seems none of those plans included insecticide, and the myriad of dead six legged creatures which are the result of a liberal application of such stuff. (The closest I ever came to any mild interest in the business was in my unique ability to sketch the American Cockroach. I recall it with a smile now, but I once entered one of my realistic drawings in a local art contest and won a blue ribbon).

But as the years increased like sand in the proverbial hour glass, and my dad set a date to “do the deed,” he fulfilled his promise to Bob to tender the business to him at, (as I recall) a less than fair market price. And given the good he’d done my dad, the value his name and work ethic had lent to the business, and the relationship they’d established, it was only well and proper for my father to do so.

And my own love and respect for Bob is such that as I was writing a condolence card for him, and his wife, Joanna, the other day it occurred to me to add a bit of cursive to the all-too formal pre-printed acknowledgments;

(which went something like…)

“Bob, while none of my father’s own children saw fit to carry on where he left off, I’m glad you have taken up the mantle, and made my dad’s legacy your heritage. I am appreciative of this, and the great love and friendship you shared with him.”

(Reminiscent of an earlier written tribute to that relationship when I included Bob in the text of my father’s obituary, listing him as a God-son; for a son he definitely was).

As I walked into the funeral home yesterday to help celebrate the life of a man whom I never had the privilege of meeting, Bob greeted me at the door, and we exchanged a bit of small talk.

Introducing me to another brother, he made him aware I was Henry’s son; the man from whom he’d purchased his business; (which by the way continues to thrive, and is lauded for the same excellent service for which my father was first known and respected).

And I responded to the introduction with,

“I’m the oldest and best looking of Henry’s three sons.”

To which Bob replied with that same wit, which I also value and emulate in my own life.

“That’s not saying much for your other brothers!”

And before I found my way into the auditorium I expressed my regrets to Bob, and reflected that,

“I always hate to see anyone leave this old world without having had the chance for a full life.” (Did I mention Roger was in his early 60’s when he left us)?

To which my friend responded,

“Oh, he definitely had a full life.” (At which point I mused that he was, at least, denied a long one).

I’d rarely seen so many people at a funeral or remembrance service. The chapel was full, and a couple dozen more were ushered into an overflow room. And as remarkable as the occasion was for its attendance, it proved just as memorable for its humor.

Did I mention the event was humorous?

(Well, it was).

Just as I, at length, spoke at my own father’s memorial, Roger’s son, Blake, also memorialized him. And from my way of thinking he was nothing less than expert in the weaving of poignancy and hilarity. His first sentence was as full of comic relief and measured richness as his last.

“My dad was known for his gift of gab, and using as many words to share something brief as possible. I think by the time I finish you may accuse me of doing the same.”

(Without contradiction I can say that the young man was true to his word).

But I think his audience might have sat for another twenty minutes and more, and never complained. For he had us laughing ‘til tears rolled down our cheeks; while all the while extolling the virtues of his father.

It seems Roger, like his brother, Bob, gave as good as he got, and then some.

He was a good husband and father. He was never afraid of work. He coached Little League. He loved and supported his community. He was apt to work five days, and perform a favor or service for this or that friend or acquaintance on the weekend.

As Blake continued his diatribe, he repeated what was to become a well-worn phrase in the Edwards household; (and one which he may have occasionally wearied of hearing his father verbalize).

“You have to do the right thing simply because… it’s the right thing.”

And you might imagine that well-worn phrase caught my attention, since it is the same well-worn phrase of which I am guilty of using in my own personal and professional life.

I love that old song which words accent the virtue of loving people and lending a hand in the time of need.

If I can help somebody as I travel along.

If I can help somebody with a word or a song.

If I can help somebody from doing wrong

… then my living will not be in vain.

(Roger’s life was not lived in vain).

An afterglow of sorts was scheduled at a nearby university in which this good man’s life was to have been celebrated further, and in which friends and relatives were scheduled to share their remembrances of, and love for this fine man. I regret that other obligations prevented me from attending. I expect that event was just as poignant, and filled with as much rich hilarity as was the earlier service.

In the New Testament Book of Philippians the Apostle Paul utters a poignant two word phrase…

“Copy me.”

And any conscientious bearer of those two words does so at his own peril. For I have little doubt Providence will hold us all accountable for our words, (and subsequent actions, or the lack thereof).

Three men whose lives have not been lived in vain. Three men who have tried to do right as God gave them to see the light.

And that is not to say that any of them, (two gone on to their reward, and one remaining) were or are perfect. Far from it. But good men. Men concerned with perhaps the two greatest attributes for which they can possibly be remembered.

...Their name and their word.

The tale of three men

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Unsolicted Solicitors

I have previously written about the topic, and this submission may be very much like an earlier one, but I’m inclined to address it anyway.

Some time ago, and as the result of “being pestered to death,” I mounted a sign next to my doorbell which contained that age-old, two word adage,

“No Soliciting”

…To no avail.

For no sooner had I placed the sign than, (you guessed it)

“Ding Dong”

Which was my cue to open the door to whatever next unfortunate contestant had, without the least foresight, announced their happy presence there.

I don’t get angry. I simply don’t,

(… but there’s exceptions to every rule).

ISIS

Pedophiles

Bumper-Huggers

Left-Laners

(and)

…Unsolicited Solicitors.

And to be fair, as a Christian I attempt to maintain my composure in relation to the latter three of the five; given they maintain a distant 3^rd, 4^th, and 5th on this shameful list.

Only yesterday a nominee for 5^th place alerted me to his unlucky appearance on my doormat, and I responded before he so much as uttered a word.

“Uh, sorry partner, did your first grade teacher give you an ‘F’ in reading?”

I’m happy to say I didn’t combine that series of thirteen words into a sentence, (but that’s not to say I didn’t feel like it).

In actuality, the sentence I chose was closer to,

“Why do you feel you are an exception to this two word admonition?” (While pointing to the sign).

And not surprisingly the seller of whatever he was selling attempted to provide me a bit of non-insightful insight about his motivation for ringing my bell; (when he might just as well have been fishing for sea bass or tending honey bees).

I once exchanged my store-bought notification with a homemade one; just to see if my version would render any better results.

Having brainstormed a bit, I sat down at my keyboard and pecked out the following ditty:

IF YOU ARE SELLING WATCHTOWER MAGAZINES, HOME SECURITY SYSTEMS, DANCE LESSONS, OR BURIAL PLOTS. GO AWAY. WE’RE ALL STOCKED UP HERE!

Finishing the task, I cut the paper into the appropriate size, placed it inside a plastic CD cover, and superglued it next to my doorbell.

…To no avail.

Recently, I saw a cute video on youtube purporting to be a real-life example of what one man did to deter unsolicited solicitors.

As the scene falls together and the victim steps onto the porch, the first thing he or she notices is the face of an ogre mounted in place of the doorknocker. What happens next is both humorous to the viewer, and hazardous to the unsolicited solicitor.

A grimace appears on the otherwise ugly countenance of the ogre, and it suddenly breaks into a diatribe of warnings and rebukes.

“Why have you come to disturb the serenity of this beautiful day?”

(and)

“Life was sweet until you disgraced my porch with your unwelcome presence, you lowly mortal”

(and)

“Leave! Leave Now! Or you will rue the day you trifled with the likes of me!”

And as the unwelcome guest turns to leave, and hurries down the front steps, an ugly six foot imp, next to an ornate fountain, comes to life, and chases the solicitor to his vehicle!

I suppose short of cutting a head-sized hole in my front door, spray painting my face, and hanging out in that rather tedious position for hours at a time, I may as well get used to unsolicited solicitors.

After all, I would rather entertain their unwelcome presence, than terrorists and pedophiles any day.