FORMOSA AVENUE ANTICS

 4314

Prior to moving to “the country,” my family and I lived on a quiet little street known as “Formosa Avenue,” (apparently named for the island of Formosa, now referred to as “Taiwan.”)

We were surrounded by working class neighbors with surnames like, “Swofford” and “Petitt” and “Chumney” and “Bragg” and “McCall” and "Raiford.” Children were in abundance here, and my siblings and I were never at a loss for juvenile companionship..

A small orange grove was situated behind our house, and it proved to be an excellent place to play. I remember “running the groves” with three or four young neighbors, in particular, including Marianne Swofford, Judy Chumney, and Mike McCall. No doubt, by the time we appeared for dinner, our bare feet were filthy with the dark brown-gray sand of our local grove.

We lived in a small, two bedroom house, and with the birth of my sister, Linda, (twelve years younger than I) we were quickly outgrowing it. Summer found us playing games like “Crack the Whip” and “Hide and Seek.” (No, I never so much as heard of “Kick the Can” until, as an adult, that game was referenced on a  “Twilight Zone” movie I happened to be watching.

Considering all the risks I took, I should have been killed a hundred times. I remember climbing up in a tall mulberry tree which bordered a railroad track, (to which I will allude again later.) I had stuffed a paper bag in my pocket, and I greedily stripped the upper limbs of their juicy, black mulberries. For all my efforts I was rewarded with stains on my shirt, (which refused to come out) and the less than satisfying ambiance of a wild “delicacy,” which the birds sometimes left to rot.

And as twilight wrapped its all-encompassing arms around our little corner of the world, and the sounds of nightingales and crickets filled the air

… the mosquito truck appeared, and lumbered down our quiet street. Every boy and girl knew the sound. While the thump of its tires on asphalt, and the roar of its engine were evidence enough, we had acclimated to a different frequency, entirely. At this juncture, almost six decades hence, it is difficult to describe the sound. (Rather like what was referred to as the “Rebel Yell” of Civil War fame. It is said that you would have had to have been there.) At any rate, we recognized the sound of the spray, as it forcibly emanated from the tank, and assumed the form of a thick, white mist. Honestly, I don’t know what our parents were thinking, but when “the siren called” eight or ten of us jumped on our bikes, and pedaled into the street, and rushed headlong into the poisonous, choking white cloud. When it was "all said and done," we all managed to come out of the experience relatively unscathed. 

And then, there was the allure of what we referred to as the "picture show." I still recall the title of one B movie which apparently had quite an effect on my young self. "The Angry Red Planet." However, in order to get there, my friends and I had to walk down an old dirt road which bordered Bartow's oldest cemetery. I still remember the little tickle that ran up my spine as I made my way back home in the early evening. I could just imagine Jacob Summerlin's ghost rising up to greet me. Suffice it to say, my time elapsed was several minutes faster on my return trip from the picture show.

from "Snapshots." The autobiography of William McDonald, PhD

THE LAMB OF GOD

 4313

No matter how many times I read this, I just cannot do it without getting chills all over me! I bet you didn’t know the following about the manger that Jesus was laid in. Of course mangers are animal feeding troughs but in ancient Israel they were made of stone - not what you would see in a modern day nativity scene. Not comfortable, but great for protection. That’s why those who were experts in this matter, the priests, would put their newborn lambs in them for protection. But not just any lamb, the unblemished perfect lambs that were used in the sacrifice for sins. And Bethlehem, where Jesus was born was FAMOUS for their UNBLEMISHED LAMBS used for the sacrifice. These lambs had to be perfect so they would wrap them tightly in cloth and lie them in the manger to keep them safe. This is exactly why the only time mangers are mentioned in Jesus’ birth story it is being told to shepherds. In Luke 2 it says “This will be a sign for you, you will find a baby wrapped in cloth and lying in a manger.” The shepherds would have understood this powerful parallel! THEY KNEW what the cloth and the manger meant! This baby would be THE PERFECT LAMB OF GOD! The Messiah who would sacrifice His life for the sins of the whole world. He wasn’t just a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger, He was GOD: perfect, sinless and Holy, humbling Himself to become the perfect sacrifice to reconcile us back to Himself!! THAT my friend, that Perfect Lamb, is WHY we celebrate Christmas!

(Unknown Author)

THE BUMMER LAMB

 4312

Every once in a while, a ewe will give birth to a lamb and reject it. There are many reasons she may do this. If the lamb is returned to the ewe, the mother may even kick the poor animal away. Once a ewe rejects one of her lambs, she will never change her mind.

 

These little lambs will hang their heads so low that it looks like something is wrong with its neck. Their spirit is broken.

 

These lambs are called “bummer lambs.” Unless the Shepherd intervenes, that lamb will die, rejected and alone. So, do you know what the Shepherd does?

 

He takes that rejected little one into His home, hand-feeds it and keeps it warm by the fire. He will wrap it up with blankets and hold it to His chest so the bummer can hear His heartbeat. Once the lamb is strong enough, the Shepherd will place it back in the field with the rest of the flock.

 

But that sheep never forgets how the Shepherd cared for him when his mother rejected him. When the Shepherd calls for the flock, guess who runs to Him first?

 

That is right, the bummer sheep. He knows His voice intimately.

 

It is not that the bummer lamb is loved more, it just knows intimately the One who loves it and has experienced that love one on one.

 

So many of us are bummer lambs, rejected and broken. But He is the good Shepherd. He cares for our every need and holds us close to His heart so we can hear His heartbeat.

 

I am a bummer lamb adopted and loved by The Good Shepherd!

(Unknown Author)

RAISED IN A CHICKEN COUP

 4311

This past weekend, my wife and I attended a vocal concert presented by one of my social media friends.

Lisbeth recounted her childhood in Central America, and how that she lived in a house with a dirt floor, no electricity, and no indoor plumbing. And while we have all heard of the existence of such conditions in so-called “third world countries,” when someone you know recounts having experienced an environment such as this, well, it gets your attention.

Here in America we take a lot for granted, I think, but we are not all that far removed from poverty. There are the ghettos which abound in all the big cities of the United States, the folks who live in their automobiles, young and not so young adults who stand in the medians of highways, and hold up “I will work for food” signs, and men, women and children who live in tents in trash-ridden out of the way places along railroad tracks.

For years I was under the impression that I had always been a member of a middle class culture; ‘til one day my mother shared a story with me. While I have the dimmest memory of having lived in the Coral Gables area of South Florida, (I was 0-5 at the time) what my mother told me that day put a whole new perspective on my childhood.

For you see, mama informed me that while my dad eked out a living as a roofer, we lived

…in a chicken coop.

Well, to be fair, a refurbished chicken coop. Apparently, one day my parent’s landlord decided that housing human beings would be more profitable than housing chickens. And thus, on such and such a day, she slaughtered, butchered, and refrigerated the chickens, and converted their former nesting place into a rental apartment; suitable for human occupation.

To be sure, the floor was cement and tile, and we had electricity and running water. But I am told that “when nature called,” or we needed a bath, we had to walk out the front door, into the yard, through an enclosed porch, and into a mutual bathroom attached to the landlord’s home.

While my formative years were spent in a chicken coop, compared to the friend to whom I have previously alluded, I think I had it pretty good.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A FRAGRANCE IN THE NIGHT

 4310

Pt. 1

I have walked and pedaled at night, and well before dawn for years.

But in spite of some "strange and wonderful" experiences, and having been questioned by the police several times, I have rarely experienced a sense of fear in those nocturnal comings and goings.

Speaking of "strange and wonderful" experiences, there was a time when I pedaled past a lone woman and her dog. As I approached her, I noticed she was standing in the middle of a landscaped area of a bank, and singing the most eerie little melody you would ever hope to hear. As you might imagine, I didn't stop to "pass the time of day" (or night) with her.

And then, there was the truck momentarily parked at the stop light, and its driver pushing a woman into his open door. Without so much as a thought, I jogged towards the truck. But a couple hundred feet separated me from them, and I could not have hoped to reach "the scene of the crime" in time. While I was considering the gravity of the situation, and after he had pulled away, a deputy's vehicle sped by, blue lights flashing, and heading the same direction as the truck.

And there was the time I pulled up to a stop sign preparing to cross a four lane highway. I looked left, then right... and noticed a tall young man walking towards me on the sidewalk, perhaps 50 feet away. Now, I looked left again, and prepared to pedal across the road. However, for whatever reason, I glanced to my right one more time.

All of two seconds had elapsed. However, the young man was... gone. Did I mention that at that very moment he had been passing a gated community on his left. The concrete wall was 6-8 feet high. And to his right, a well lit street. He was nowhere to be seen. I came away from that experience convinced that I had seen an angel. (Funny thing, when I told my grandson about this experience, he said, "Nah, you just saw some guy dressed up in an angel suit!")

Pt. 2

But beyond my unusual experiences "out there," I have noticed one recurring dynamic which might be described in one of two ways:

The unusual sensitivity of the human nose when exposed to the darkness of night (and) an aromatic stimulus

(or)

The natural wherewithal of fragrances and odors to intensify themselves, as it were, in a quiet, darkened environment.

(Or perhaps both)

You see, I have been walking or pedaling at night over the course of the past ten years when suddenly a car passed by. And then, the rich fragrance of perfume permeated the air.

Or as I pedaled past a home, a front yard separating me from the porch, the putrid odor of cigarette smoke. And while I was unable to see anyone in the darkness of the night, I realized someone was there.

And for that matter, my own presence, and my impact on an inanimate object. Why, in the past week I was pedaling past one of my neighbor's homes, a full twenty feet from a pickup truck, and the vehicle alarm system begins to blare. Lights flashing, and various sound effects.

And it has occurred to me that the foregoing predilection has something to teach us; something spiritual in nature.

For I am convinced that God is closer, and that He reveals Himself to us in a kinder, sweeter. more present manner in the night seasons of our lives, and when we need Him most. And perhaps He increases our sensitivity to Him during those seasons of our lives. 

I think He does.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHEN AN ANIMAL DIES

 4309

The date was February 12, 2021.

Our precious Shih Tzu, Queenie, had been exhibiting signs of dementia for well over a year. More often, than not she would do her "liquid business" on the hallway carpet. And she would cower in corners, or hide behind the full-length blinds of our double sliding glass doors. 

It was simply time

And as was my custom, I put her in the car that morning, and rode her around our extended neighborhood, while all the while telling her how very special she was, and how much joy she had lent to my wife and me the past several years.

Suffice it to say the veterinarian was, well, a jerk. (After thirty years one would think he might have possessed some sort of bedside manners). For you see, as he carried out his gruesome task, he was sure to tell us not to dispose of our precious pooch next to the road, (as any creature which ate her carcass would die from the chemicals which permeated her body). Not the sort of thing he should have been sharing with us during the very act. Extremely tacky. Queenie jerked once after the initial sedative was administered. However, after the lethal dose, she left us like a lady.

I had selected a round, ornate hatbox as her resting place. Lifting her from the exam table, I placed her in it, set the lid in place, paid our bill, made our way to the car, and drove home.

Arriving home, my wife and I walked through the garage, and set the hat box down on the living room floor. Lifting the lid, I placed a single red rose, Queenie's favorite toy, and a dog biscuit inside her makeshift coffin. 

What followed next was a premeditated decision to expose Queenie's counterpart to the reality of her ongoing absence from his life.

I encouraged Toby, our black and white Papillion, to walk over to the makeshift coffin. Peering inside, Toby displayed more than the average curiosity. In whatever way a dog is prone to reason, I could sense his confusion. "Why is she not moving?" (and) "Is she asleep?"

 I simply could not allow Toby's canine roommate to "go the way of all flesh" without providing him some understanding of her future absence from the home he had shared with her. To have done so would have been simply unacceptable, and beyond my comprehension.

And now, I re-installed the lid of Queenie's circular casket, and made my way to a large scrub oak tree in our backyard. Setting the hatbox into a pre-dug hole, I said a few words for her, and covered her cardboard coffin. 

She rests next to four of her furry, little canine companions; only one of which she knew in life. Buddy, Bobby and Lucy, and an honorary gravesite for Princess, a black and white cocker spaniel which my siblings and I loved and lost a full seven decades ago. (Since that day, I have installed license-plate sized flat, gray slate markers over each gravesite, bearing their photographs, names and dates, and with epitaphs such as, "You were loved" (and) "We will see you again").

In life Toby and Queenie seemed so aloof to one another's presence in the house. They ate, they slept, they sought our attention without so much as acknowledging one another.

However, what followed next was completely unexpected 

Toby's demeanor changed. He sulked around the house like someone who had lost his best friend. He left half his food in the dish. The light in his eyes had gone out. He was obviously depressed. He understood Queenie was gone, and was not coming back. Thankfully, by week three, his spirits lifted.

Almost four years later, our little Toby is nearing the end of his days on earth, and it is all too obvious that we will soon need to repeat the process. And we have brought two additional pooches into our home.

They say a dog doesn't live as long as a human being since it doesn't take a dog as long to learn to be perfect.

Well, I'm not sure that little ditty is altogether accurate. But they are special, and they are precious, and they are loved. And when they cross the rainbow bridge, they are not soon forgotten.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

BECOMING REAL

 4308

Pt. 1

Who among us hasn’t seen, “The Sound of Music” starring Christopher Plummer and Julie Andrews? I must have viewed it eight or ten times over the last few decades, and it just never gets old.

I recently became aware of the passing of the oldest of the cinematic von Trapp children; who literally a billion of us have come to know and love. Months later, I learned that the actress, Charmian Carr, who was 23 at the time of the filming, had authored a book about her experiences in the making of the award winning movie entitled, “Forever Liesl.” I just recently purchased it. From the first page the book has been nothing less than compelling.

The following passage highlights where I hope to soon take you.

“It was December of 1998. We were all in New York to be honored by the State of Salzburg. The von Trapps were to be awarded the Golden Decoration of Honor for the many ways in which their family had helped Austria, and we seven were to receive the Mozart Medal for our part in spreading the von Trapps’ story worldwide.

In all the years since we made the film, I had never met our real-life counterparts, only their step-mother, Maria Augusta Kutschera von Trapp, whom Julie Andrews portrayed in the film.

I never saw the real Maria again before she died in 1987. Now that the moment had finally arrived that I would meet the ‘children’ we’d portrayed, it was daunting. It felt as if we were imposters. For more than three decades, the seven of us had been applauded for being von Trapps, and suddenly we were faced with the real ones.

We all retreated to our hotel rooms surprised at how awkward that first moment felt, and wondering why we found it so hard to speak to them.”

Pt. 2

“At midday, the seven of us who’d been in the film were invited to join the vice-governor of Salzburg for lunch in the hotel’s restaurant. As we were led to our table, we passed by the von Trapp (now aged) children sitting at their own. Once again, we all glanced at each other, but no words were spoken.

Finally, Maria von Trapp, the younger Maria, now 84, strode across the room to our table. I looked into her eyes, afraid and hopeful at the same time, as she reached out her hand to me, saying, ‘I felt I should come meet you at last.’

I jumped from my seat. ‘I’m so glad you did!’ I gestured towards my film siblings. ‘We’ve all been so nervous.’

‘We have too.’ She grinned. Suddenly her arms were encircling me, and my arms instantly went around her. The embrace overwhelmed me.

‘You are beautiful,’ she said to me, smiling. ‘It means so much for me to meet you.’

‘And I you,’ I whispered.

One by one her brothers and sisters joined us. The awkwardness was past, and now we were huddling close together, talking and laughing, reveling in the connection between us, as if at a family reunion-which in a very true sense, is exactly what it was.

I hadn’t expected the sensation. I hadn’t expected to feel I was coming home. For the first time, I realized how much I owed this lovely woman and her family.

‘This is incredible,’ Maria said, reaching out to hug me again. As I held on to her, I could not help wondering about the forces that had brought us together. We were strangers, born thousands of miles apart, separated by generations and events, yet we were bound to each other, like relatives long lost. I tightened my embrace and thought back on how it all began.”

Pt. 3

I finally found myself in the final class of the final course in the final degree in which I had enrolled. And oddly enough, our professor filled up the final moments reading from a children’s book, “The Velveteen Rabbit.”

“’What is REAL?’ asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. ‘Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?’

‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become REAL.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.

‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘But when you are REAL you don’t mind being hurt.’

‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up.’ He asked. ‘or bit by bit?’

‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse.

…‘You become.’”

Of course, as our professor read the passage from the book, the entire class wondered what the significance was of her having chosen this particular volume from which to read.

The teacher culminated the reading with a few pertinent remarks.

“Dear students. There are times when you will struggle to maintain your equilibrium, and wonder if you have chosen the right career field. There are times when life will beat you down, and you’ll wonder if it’s all worth it. Becoming real is a process, and the path to becoming real is filled with uncertainty and even danger. But I can assure you that once you are real, really real, you will never again wish to return to your former condition.”

Pt. 4

I suppose Charmian and her other cinematic brothers and sisters were a bit like the character in that little volume by the same title. They had been the objects of fame, fortune and notoriety for decades, and had learned to identify at some level with the ‘real’ children of the von Trapp family.

“Now that the moment had finally arrived that I would meet the ‘children’ we’d portrayed, it was daunting. I felt as if we were imposters. For more than three decades, the seven of us had been applauded for being von Trapps, and suddenly, we were face to face with

…the real ones.”

As much as Charmian had embraced the part and assumed the role and took the bows and enjoyed the acclaim, she simply had not endured the circumstances, nor paid the price to be someone she was not. There was only one Liesl.

“Suddenly her arms were encircling me, and my arms instantly went around her. The embrace overwhelmed me.”

I think much like Maria modeled ‘real’ for Charmian, and much like the Skin Horse modeled ‘real’ for the Rabbit, we must embrace the joy and sorrow, good and bad, light and darkness, balm and suffering of what it means to be ‘real,’ if we are to have any hope of achieving that lofty status.

“‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.

‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘But when you are REAL you don’t mind being hurt.’

‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up.’ He asked. ‘or bit by bit?’

‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse.

…‘You become.’”

by Bill McDonald, PhD