AFTER A WHILE IT STINGS A LITTLE BIT

In my work with my counseling clients, I enjoy using stories, illustrations and adages.

Sometimes I use a story based on a scene from the movie, "Rocky."

Rocky walks into the employment service and speaks to the employment counselor.

"Uh, hey there, I'm Rocky Balboa. I'm wondering if you got a great job for me 'cause like I'm thinking of doing something different. I mean I'm not bragging or anything, but I finished the 7th grade. Whatcha got for me?"

The employment counselor looks closely at Rocky and says,

"I know you! I have seen you fight. You are good! Why would you want to leave boxing? That's where the money is. I mean I can only offer you a menial job at maybe $6.50 an hour. Why in the world would you wanna leave what you're so good at?"

Now a lop-sided grin appears on Rocky's face, and he says,

"Well, uh, after a while it stings a little bit!"

Pt. 2

Relationships can sting a little bit. (And yes, sometimes a whole lot). Ministry can sting a little bit. (And yes, sometimes a whole lot).

Vulnerability often stings a little bit or a whole lot when we have “put it all out there” and someone has used and abused our trust. And more often than not, if and when we get hurt, and it begins to sting, we make a decision to shield ourselves from any further hurt, and our vulnerability melts like ice on hot asphalt.

I think we have all been there. I know I have. I have experienced many of those “stings” in both relationships and ministry. And as a result, I have been able to come along side my clients, and assure them, “I have walked in your shoes” (and) “I understand your pain.”

But I tell them something else, something they are often not prepared to hear.

“If you and I are to be successful, (whether in relationships or ministry or any other area of our lives) after we exercise vulnerability, and after we get hurt, and after we take time to grieve, we need to practice vulnerability all over again.” (Though obviously people don’t have permission to use and abuse us on a repetitive basis, and there are times we need to forgive, but refuse to reconcile).

Relationships can sting a little bit. (Sometimes a whole lot). Ministry can sting a little bit. (Sometimes a whole lot). But whether relationships or ministry, or anything else in life, if we are to be successful, we have to take risks, and we have to be vulnerable.

by William McDonald, PhD

ATTICUS & SCOUT

I watched a rerun of “To Kill a Mockingbird” a couple of weeks ago, and for some reason I have thought of this movie off and on since then. But more than the movie, I have thought of the actors in the movie; most especially Gregory Peck, who portrayed “Atticus Finch” and Mary Badham, who portrayed “Scout Finch,” his daughter.

I would love to see the current Broadway play by the same title. Jeff Bridges plays the “Atticus” character and Celia Keenan-Bolger plays the “Scout” character.

However, if I had my choice, (and had it been possible) I would have chosen to stand on the sidelines during the making of that 1962 movie. I was 13 at the time, whereas the actress who portrayed Scout was 10, (and at this writing is still with us and is 68 years of age).

Mary Badham was nominated for an Academy Award in the category of Best Supporting Actress for “To Kill a Mockingbird,” the first movie role in which she had ever appeared. (However, the 16 year old Patty Duke won the Oscar that year for her portrayal of Helen Keller in “The Miracle Worker”). Badham appeared in a few movies after “TKAM,” but none as memorable and enduring as her first. In 2016 she was invited to a White House screening of that old movie, and “rubbed shoulders” with President Obama and his wife. Today she is an art restorer and college testing coordinator, though she remains open to appearing in what she would characterize as “suitable” acting roles, (as she deplores the language and sexuality rampant in modern movies).

Pt. 2

However, all my previous meanderings are just an entre to what I wish to now share with you.

For you see, something almost magical happened during the course of the making of the movie which led to an irrevocable and ongoing connection between several of the main actors.

“Scout” has maintained a relationship with her movie brother, “Jem,” (Phillip Alford), and with “Tom Robinson,” (Brock Peters) until his death in 2005. However, given the roles they played in the movie, perhaps the tenderest and most abiding connection existed between Mary Badham and Gregory Peck; who passed away four decades after the release of the movie.

For you see, “Scout” continued to call Gregory Peck “Atticus” in their private conversations, as well as when referring to him in interviews and public conversations. Simply put her movie father was and would always be her “Atticus.” From Mary Badham’s perspective a significant symmetry and correlation existed between her movie father and the real man, and the traits of the “Atticus” character spoke volumes about those of the legendary actor.

But I think anyone who has watched “TKAM” would agree that “Atticus Finch” (and by implication Gregory Peck) comes across as a courteous, courageous, and caring man; (the three primary attributes I take away from the primary man of the movie).

Pt. 3

I did a little research before I “put pen to paper,” and what was so compelling to me were several dozen quotations of and about the mythical “Atticus Finch,” and upon which I conveniently assign Badham’s assessment of the man who portrayed him in the movie.

Following are some of “Atticus” words, as well as words people said about him in the movie:

“Sometimes we have to make the best of things, and the way we conduct ourselves when the chips are down—well, all I can say is, when you and Jem are grown, maybe you’ll look back on this with some compassion and some feeling that I didn’t let you down.”

“It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived.”

“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”

“He’s the same in the court-room as he is on the public streets.”

“The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.”

“Atticus had said it was the polite thing to talk to people about what they were interested in, not about what you were interested in.”

Pt. 4

I honestly don’t think it’s for nothing that the child actress continued to call Gregory Peck by his cinematic name of “Atticus” for the four decades which elapsed between the making of the movie and the day he went on to his reward.

And based on the content of the movie quotes, three of the character’s (and the actor’s) key attributes were Courtesy, Courage and the natural wherewithal to Care about people.

Scripture is replete with admonitions related to these attributes.

Speaking of Courtesy, in Gal. 6:10 we read,

“As we therefore have opportunity, let us do good to all men…”

Speaking of Courage, in Deut. 31:6 we read,

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."

And speaking of a Caring spirit, in Matt. 7:12 we read,

“Whatsoever you would that men would do to you, do you even so to them.”

I like to think that Gregory Peck was both righteously proud and humanly humbled when Mary Badham called him “Atticus.” I like to think her characterization of him “kept him on his toes” and caused him to redouble his efforts to emulate the “Atticus” character. I like to think that Mary’s use of the “Atticus” moniker conjured up some of the lines he once learned and spoke in the movie.

I think we all have something we can learn from “Atticus.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

100 HEROES

I have bowed my knees at the cross almost 100 times in the past three days. (But no, I haven’t been on a spiritual pilgrimage in Jerusalem or Lourdes or to some other religious shine).

I have been repainting those heavy black metal crosses you see scattered around ancient cemeteries below the Mason-Dixon line, and which are referred to as Confederate Iron Crosses.

And while I haven’t renewed my expired membership, I am a former member of The Sons of Confederate Veterans; “former” simply because I haven’t made a priority of renewing it, (not because I have suddenly embraced a new political perspective of that war, or my fellow descendants, or the men who fought and died in that conflict).

Simply put, I abhor slavery, as well as the illegitimate use of the Confederate Battle Flag, (the flag which happens to be the symbol of The Sons of Confederate Veterans organization). However, (and it is a big “however”) the common Confederate fighting man never owned a slave, he was conscripted into the Southern army, and his personal mindset was that he was fighting for what he thought of as “home and country.”

Several of my own forebears fought under the Confederate Battle Flag, one of which, my double great Grandfather, was a transplanted Yankee from Maine who migrated to Georgia prior to the advent of the war. No doubt, he rued the day he moved south since he was drafted the last year of the war, and was summarily captured and interned in the notorious Union prison in Elmira, New York. His brother remained in Maine, and his allegiance was to the Star Spangled Banner. (Literally brother against brother).

Pt. 2

After a few years in the rain those heavy iron memorial crosses tend to get pretty rusty, and they are prone to develop scaly green patches of mold; (which is where I come in).

As a marriage and family counselor, I have met with thousands of men, women, boys and girls, and refer to them as my “clientele.” Over the past three days all of my clientele have been, well, dead. In retrospect, I have imagined those one hundred brave men, who no longer experience hunger or thirst or ambitions or regrets, in their prime and standing in formation, and arrayed for war; much like I once was.

I “spent time” with a number of interesting men over the past three days at Shiloh, and Wildwood and Oak Hill cemeteries. (And given their biographies and personalities, it almost seems they were present with me there).

First and foremost, (because I am admittedly biased), my great great Uncle Joshua Frier. His mortal remains await the Second Coming in Shiloh Cemetery, Plant City, Florida. As I got busy with my trusty wire brush, I reflected on the stories I read in his Civil War journal; written thirty years after the conclusion of the war. He claimed to have known and befriended Lewis Paine, one of the Lincoln conspirators, as a boy. He wrote about his father’s house slave, a cook and housekeeper, who hugged him when he came home on furlough. And Joshua spoke of his brother Samuel who went AWOL, was tracked down by bounty hunters, and was discovered hiding under a house. Sadly, no trial was necessary. (Interestingly enough, the paragraph relating to Joshua’s brother had been scratched out in the journal, but someone managed to decipher the words, perhaps holding the page against a light bulb, so they have not been irretrievably lost.

My father and I attended a memorial ceremony at Shiloh several years before he passed away. I value the photo I have of him and me posing with several members of a Sons of Confederate Veterans color guard garbed in their grey uniforms and holding replica Civil War rifles.

Pt. 3

While I was at Wildwood Cemetery in Bartow, Florida, I paid a repeat visit to Benjamin Franklin Holland. You see, I painted his and about thirty-five other Iron Crosses in this cemetery well over a decade ago.

Old Ben was just 18 when he enlisted (or was drafted, as the case may be), and was wounded in the Battle of Kulp’s Farm. He attended Bowdoin College, and helped organize the First Methodist Church of Bartow; the church my mother attended, and in which I grew up.

But PVT Holland’s greatest claim to fame was one of his children, who great up to be a tall, lanky man who went by the name of “Spessard.” Spessard had the distinction of serving as Governor of the State of Florida, and, ultimately, was elected to the U.S. Senate.

My Summerlin Institute senior class of 1967 boarded a train for Washington D.C. in May of that year, deboarded a day later, and toured the Capitol Building. I have a photo of our class and Senator Holland seated on the steps of this remarkable building.

Senator Holland is interred a few feet away from his father. A beautiful white marble slab graces his gravesite. On the slab are engraved the various vocational accomplishments of the man, including his sponsorship of the 24^th Amendment to our constitution.

Today I completed my “tour of duty” and stopped by Oak Hill Cemetery in Bartow. Among the three cemeteries, the vast majority of the veterans and their Iron Crosses are here, numbering almost fifty; quite an undertaking, (no pun intended).

As a boy I lived a hundred yards from this cemetery. I will always remember walking past this ethereal place in the dark, as my brothers and I made our way to and from the local theater. (We called it a “picture show” sixty years ago). Our pace picked up a bit as we walked past that stone wall which surrounded the cemetery, and the fire flies flittered around the headstones.

I could imagine a myriad of ghosts and goblins ready to pounce upon us. Little could I have imagined that as an old man, I would be afforded the privilege and pleasure of painting these same memorial crosses which may well have, even then, graced the gravesites of the South’s fallen heroes, and where I played Hide and Go Seek in the glare of the daylight sun.

Ghosts and goblins no more, but friends.

Pt. 4

About halfway through my duties today, I stepped up to the gravesite of one of the most familiar characters “in these parts.” Anyone and everyone who has lived in Bartow for very long knows the name of Jacob Summerlin.

I have seen several pictures of the man. He looked to be a fairly non-descript fellow of his time. Hair parted down the middle, unsmiling, beardless, wearing spectacles and holding a cane. His claim to fame was the founding of Summerlin Institute, (to which I have already alluded), my high school alma mater, the oldest in Polk County.

As I set to work with my wire brush, and followed up with black enamel spray paint, I did something I had previously done at some of the other gravesites. I spoke to ole Jacob. (And had he been present in mind and body, and not just body, I might well have “gotten his dander up”).

“Jacob, I can tell you I have mixed emotions about painting your memorial cross. I mean, I am the GGGG Grandson of a black slave, and you ‘owned’ a few of them. And man, I don’t mind telling you, that ain’t right! I only hope you treated them well.”

(My mother and I took DNA tests a few years ago which revealed that, among other nationalities, we had a small Sub-Saharan black bloodline. I, subsequently, ordered another DNA test which substantiated this rather unique revelation to someone who is a child of segregation).

Our school was referred to as Summerlin Institute ‘til a few years after I graduated. But after Union Academy, a black high school, began the process of integration, and started sending their students to Summerlin, it was renamed Bartow Senior High School. Somehow it didn’t seem fitting to retain the moniker of a slave owner.

I continued speaking to the unhearing man.

“But I won’t play favorites. You did fight for the Southern Cause. And you did experience the fog of war. And you might have well died on the field of battle. And you were the founder of the school from which I graduated. I’ll give you a pass on this time. (And we’re not talking about a hall pass).

And with those words, I finished spray painting ole Jacob’s memorial cross and moved on to the next soldier.

Afterward

And while, as I have inferred, I do not celebrate the war, I celebrate the warrior, many of whom walked around with the same DNA in their chromosomes as I do today. And as for the outcome? How could any citizen of the United States regret the outcome of that awful conflict?

But it is a privilege to, in essence, celebrate these dear men, who answered the call to duty, and as best as God gave them to see the light, they did that duty.

And to speak for them, their voices now muted, as mine most assuredly will one day be.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

A VISIT WITH MY RELATIVES

My wife has been helping our daughter this week in the aftermath of her surgery, and in the absence of anyone but me and our pet pooch, Toby, in the house I have been bored out of my mind.

As a result, I thought I would visit a couple of my relatives in a nearby town.

Uhmmm, I guess it might help to mention that they have been dead for a century and a half. (Yeah, they have).

I left the house about 330pm and I was strolling around ancient Shiloh cemetery before the clock struck 4. I had been there before. As a matter of fact, the last time I was there my late father was with me. As I recall, it was early in the first decade of the current century. We had been invited to attend a memorial ceremony for my GGG (his GG) Uncle Joshua Frier. Fifteen or twenty other Civil War veterans were also being memorialized that day.

And from my way of thinking the ceremony was nothing less than grand. There was a Sons of Confederate Veterans color guard, and a bagpiper. And, of course, someone presented a speech of the kind one expects at such a ceremony. Afterwards, the color guard posed with my dad and I next to the headstone of my ancient Uncle Joshua.

Speaking of Joshua, he was a member of the First Florida Infantry Regiment and fought in various battles throughout our state. Thirty years after the war, he wrote a journal detailing his experiences. I have long since forgotten how I came across it, but I have an e-copy, and have read his entire Civil War journal.

Joshua’s father and mother, my GGG Grandparents, are also interred at Shiloh Cemetery. Ryan Frier pastored a mixed white and black church in Jacksonville prior to the Civil War. When the war ended his parishioners divided into separate racial factions, and, amazingly, the two resulting churches boast congregations numbering in the thousands today.

Pt. 2

It can be somewhat unsettling, but at the same time strangely familiar to visit one’s late relatives. Standing at the gravesite of someone I never knew in life. And while I share the same DNA, and their names are well known to me, I will never have the privilege of meeting them on this side of eternity.

And when the question of affection arises, at first light it seems difficult to sense any overt love for someone you never knew, albeit one’s direct family lineage. And yet, but for them I would have remained a theory. But as for me, the only way they continue to, as it were, live and move and breathe, and exercise impact on the earth is through those who have stepped in to fill the gap which they left behind.

It can be a bit “strange and wonderful” to gaze at their names, and their dates of birth and death, and to realize many went the way of all flesh long before attaining the number of years with which I have been blessed. Standing here I have come face to face with my own mortality. Ancestors whose pictures look down on me in my living room, and who once possessed as much privilege and pleasure to come and go and be, as I do now, lay unfeeling and unspeaking beneath my very feet. They were here, and I was not. I am here and they are not. Ultimately, we will share the same fate.

As a believer I have wondered if they prayed for me. I suppose I never thought about it until a few years ago. I think it is too easy for the living to be taken up with, well, living. But the closer I have gotten to the time and place where my ancestors now reside, the more I have thought about those who are destined to live, and move and breathe after my spirit has fled from this earthly tabernacle; on which it now depends to manifest its faculties.

Afterward

I pray for my children and grandchildren on a daily basis. Always have. Always will. But as I have inferred, I have begun praying for my grandchildren’s children and grandchildren, those who are presently invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, and untouchable to the touch, but who are destined to fill a void which would be left vacant without them, and which without them we cannot continue to weld an ethereal influence on future generations.

I believe some of my ancestors prayed for me, perhaps centuries in the past, as I also now pray for my descendants; whom I will never know in this life. In spite of my personal deficits (and they are many), my life has been too marvelous and miraculous to just randomly happen the way it has.

 Someone had to be praying for me. And I think I have been closer to fulfilling the dreams God dreamed for me before He spoke the worlds and stars into existence because they did.

by William McDonald, PhD

IT'S TIME - My Precious Pooch Prepares for Her Final Journey

I have previously written several accounts of February 12, 2021. Of course, that date would mean little or nothing to most people, but it is one of many singular dates in my own life.

For on this date, almost four months ago at this writing, my dear little Shih Tzu, Queenie, crossed the Rainbow Bridge and joined Princess, Buddy, Bobby and Lucy in a lovely place where, one day, I expect to be reunited with them, along with many of my dearly departed family members.

And as I implied in the first paragraph, I have all but exhausted what I wish to relate about my dear Queenie’s final minutes on earth. However, there are a few things I would like to add to my account of her final weeks as a member of our household.

Queenie’s time with my family and me were quite obviously drawing to a close, and though it would have been easier to ignore “the elephant in the room,” it was becoming almost impossible to do so.

Although we could not be sure of her age since she wandered up in a friend’s yard years ago, the vet thought she was between 16 and 18. She had long since lost all her teeth, and her eyes had developed cataracts. (I could only wonder how much sight remained to her).

But worse than her physical deficits, during the past year, or perhaps somewhat longer, my dear little pooch had been displaying the troublesome symptoms of dementia. Queenie would walk into my bedroom, and moments later she would begin barking, as though she couldn’t find her way out. If and when it rained, she would walk into our hall bathroom, push the door shut, and finding herself in the dark would begin scratching on the door, ‘til she left permanent claw marks in the varnish; (which still remind me that she once graced us with her presence). And then there were times she would jump up on the couch and sit a few feet away from me. (Shih Tzu’s aren’t great social animals). However, whenever my wife would walk by the sofa, Queenie would begin to bark and generally “raise Cain,” as if to say, “Hey, this is my human being. Go find one of your own!”

Pt. 2

Of course, as the days and weeks and months tick-tocked themselves into the annals of my personal history, I began to dread the inevitable. In the movie, “Marley & Me,” there is a scene in which the blonde Labrador’s owner, John, is seated next to his aging pet pooch under a large tree, and surrounded by a beautiful field of grain.

Gazing intently at Marley, John speaks.

“Hey fella, I can’t do this by myself. You let me know. You let me know when it’s time.”

I love that movie, and, of course, given Queenie’s age and symptoms that scene became increasingly relevant to me and my precious pooch. So much so that in the last few months of her life I found myself repeating John Grogan’s words.

“Hey little girl, I can’t do this by myself. You let me know. You let me know when it’s time.”

Of course, a dog is incapable of replicating human speech. But they speak to us, nonetheless. (Yes, they do).

And while Queenie’s troubling symptoms of dementia might well have been sufficient and spoken volumes to most people, it was a more sedate, perhaps almost mundane occurrence which spoke the loudest to me.

Six or eight days before our precious pooch crossed the proverbial Rainbow Bridge, I picked her up and sat down on the sofa. Now she did something she had never done in the seven plus years she spent with us.

Suddenly, her little head drooped onto my left shoulder, as if to confirm what I already knew. And like a whisper in a wind storm she told me.

“It’s time.” 

Afterward

Just days later I stood next to her as the vet did what vets do best (or worst, as the case may be). Queenie resisted slightly, but I held her close, and whispered in her ear. Now she bowed to her fate, and softly pitter pattered across the Rainbow Bridge; a bridge which we must all assuredly cross one day.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

UNFINISHED DREAMS

 (Commemorating D-Day - 77 Years ago, June 6, 1944)

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

 

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

 

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

 

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

 

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

 

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

 

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

 

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

 

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

 

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

 

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

 

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

 

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

 

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

 

They gave their tomorrows for our todays.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MY TRASHMAN

 

I was finishing my daily one hour walk a few days ago. It was around 630am, and a few minutes after sunrise.

As I was completing the final several hundred yards of my walk a garbage truck passed me, and stopped to collect some small tree limbs which had been put out by the curb.

The lone garbageman was working quickly, but seemed to pause momentarily as I passed on his left. I looked his way, smiled and said,

“Hello, how are you this morning?”

To which the young man replied,

“I’m good. Thank you, Sir.”

“Thank you, Sir”?

I was a bit surprised with his courteous response. Perhaps I had, without realizing it, unconsciously stereotyped the “kind” of people who ride on the rear end of garbage trucks.

I mean it can’t be the most desirable of jobs, certainly not the most prestigious, nor requiring much more than a second grade education, and I tend to think the pay scale would hover pretty low on the totem pole.

I mean, how many little boys have ever mused,

“When I grow up, I want to be a garbageman!”

And how many young and middle-aged men in the profession ever said,

“Well yes, thank you. I ride on the back of a garbage truck 5 days a week, and I darn well wouldn’t have it any other way!”

But this young man smiled from ear to ear, and he was just so polite. Not exactly what I was prepared for.

Pt. 2

As I passed the trash truck it suddenly rolled forward, and I watched it as it disappeared around the curve; just fifty yards from my home. The young man was standing on the lip of the compactor, and holding onto the steel handle which “hit” him at about waist level.

As I rounded the curve, I was a minute and a half from the completion of my morning walk. Now, I was home and walking across the yard to my front door. In the meantime, I had passed the truck again in the performance of its duties. And it occurred to me that the young man, with whom I had exchanged pleasantries, noticed as I unlocked the door, and disappeared into the house.

An hour or two later I had something to do in the front yard, and it was then I saw it; something which I had never before witnessed.

Whereas, my trashman had ALWAYS emptied my yard trimmings into the truck, and tossed the plastic trash cans haphazardly into the yard, the three empty cans had been neatly stacked into each other.

I had no way of knowing whether this was the usual method of operation of the young trashman, or whether realizing this was the home of the older man who had previously greeted him so warmly, he had made a momentary decision to “give as good as he got.”

In Matthew Chapter 7 Verse 12 we read,

“Whatsoever you would that men would do to you do you even so to them.”

The Golden Rule

If it is good enough for my local trashman, by golly it ought to be good enough for you and me.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending