YOU BETTER LET HIM RIDE WITH ME

 4059

"There was a preacher who lived in the mountains of North Carolina who was known to drive far too fast. His friends were worried about him since he had experienced several 'near misses.' One day the minister was negotiating the mountain curves far too quickly, as usual, and a friend of his named Joe recognized his car in front of him. The preacher neared what was known as 'dead man's curve' now, and suddenly ran over the cliff! Joe was horrified, and screeched to a stop. Running down the side of the mountain Joe saw the parson's car lying on its roof and burning. Now he saw the minister crawling out of the window. Joe screamed. "Preacher, preacher are you alright?" To which the preacher replied, "Well, yes thank you. The Lord's riding with me." Joe shook his head and replied, "You better let Him ride with me before you kill Him!!!"

PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

 4058

Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son had seen his sisters, I invited him to accompany me.

 

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

 

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table, and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

 

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

 

"I'm three!"

 

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

 

"I'm sixty-eight!"

 

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

 

"You will live a very long life."

 

(and)

 

"You will do wonderful things!"

 

I cannot tell you where my words came from, nor whether they were particularly inspired, (though I tend to believe they were). And I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

 

Of this, however, I am sure. Before He breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

 

Yes, I am sure of it.

 

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow, I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.

by William McDonald, PhD

OLD TOM

 4057

OLD TOM

My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

 

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

 

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

 

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay.

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

 

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

 

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

 

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

 

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

 

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

 

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

 

“And So It Goes”

 

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

 

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

 

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.  

by William McDonald, PhD

MAYBE TWOUBLE LOOKIN' FOR YOU

 4056

I pedal

I pedal a lot

I pedal in the wee hours of the morning

And during the course of almost 4 years, and over 12,000 miles of pedaling the same 10 mile course, I’ve “run into” some pretty strange scenarios; (in addition to several calamitous falls).

A woman standing next to the highway, in the shrubbery of a bank, holding a small terrier, and singing the most eerie tune that’s ever been sung. (Needless to say, I kept pedaling).

Speaking of four-footed beasts of the canine variety, a miniature, emaciated Doberman tied to a lamppost next to the highway. It goes without saying, I cannot leave her there, but take her home, feed her, and quickly dispatch the precious pooch to a no-kill shelter.

A young man, perhaps 6’ tall, 170 lbs., walking along the sidewalk towards me, as I am preparing to cross a four lane thoroughfare. I look to my right. I see him. I look to the left. No traffic. I look to the right, and he has vanished from my sight. Did I mention there is an 8’ wall on his left, and a well-lit highway on his right?

A young man with a cane standing at a busy intersection. Approaching him he asks if I can direct him to a particular part of town. Johnny (for that is his name) tells me that he has been walking for five (5) hours; having been released earlier that evening from the county jail. Making a calculated decision I suggest he keep walking. I will finish pedaling home, retrieve my car, and drive him the remaining couple of miles to his home. (That I am writing this story and have suffered no harm or alarm speaks for itself).

And then tonight''

Perhaps the most bizarre scenario of all

I have just crossed over one of several four lane highways which exist on my measured pathway, and mounted the next sidewalk; for I only pedal on sidewalks. Safer, don’t ya know? (Ironic, I suppose, given this strange series of stories).

I hear it before I see it. Some muted, unidentified protestations. I turn my gaze in a diagonal direction. And oddly enough, as it seems now, on the exact same corner where I encountered ‘Jailhouse Johnny’ are a large black SUV, and a late model semi-truck cab. Parked at a traffic light, I notice the driver of the SUV is standing just behind his vehicle, while the driver of the larger truck is engaged in a struggle with what appears to be an adult female.

I think none of us know exactly how we will respond to a seeming emergency until it “drops from the sky” and figuratively exclaims, “Here I am.” Oh, we can imagine what we’d do, but “the proof is (definitely) in the pudding.”

I do not hesitate

It occurred to me at that moment that I was willing to do whatever I had to do to rescue the apparent “damsel in distress.” At the moment, at least, I had no consideration whatever of the presence of firearms, or taking on two ‘bad boys’ at a time, (or the fact that I am approaching 70 years of age).

I immediately begin peddling my speedy (well, not so much) bike towards what appears to be the scene of a crime. As I pedal I attempt to “get the mark” of the situation unraveling before me. It seems a woman is being dragged into the driver’s side of the cab, as if the offender intends to take her against her will.

Twenty feet from the truck now, and the young (or not so much) lady is being pulled (or clamoring) over the legs of the driver and into a jump or bench seat to his right.

Ten feet from my goal now, and the driver’s door slams shut. I peer into the poorly lit cab and it seems the driver and potential detainee are still, and awaiting the decision of the other vehicle. The man walks to the driver’s side of his car, gets in, makes a 90 degree turn, and the semi-cab follows suite. I watch the two vehicles as they accelerate, and eventually disappear out of sight.

As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ (re. the novel, ‘Jane Eyre’) was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?"

I reach into my pocket and consider the possibility of dialing 911. And yet. Wasn’t the woman ‘cool, calm and collected’ as the door slammed shut in my face? And didn’t the driver of the other vehicle casually stroll to his car, as though nothing was amiss?

I consider an alternative possibility

Perhaps the three individuals knew one another. Perhaps the driver of the first vehicle stopped at the light to allow the woman to ride in the second. Perhaps she and the pilot of the second were a bit ‘tanked’ and simply engaging in some raucous revelry. And rather than using the passenger door, she chose to enroll herself in the cab the hard way.

I delay. I debate. I deliberate. (All those ‘D’ words).

I desist

Approximately three minutes elapse and I hear it before I see it.

(Rather familiar, don’t you think)?

A sheriff’s department cruiser comes sailing down the highway at break-neck speed, its red and blue lights flashing, and its siren screaming.

I can only surmise, having witnessed the unusual scenario unfolding before him or her, a witness retrieved his or her phone and made the call.

My brother is, himself, a long haul truck driver, and I often give him a ring as he is on his way to Miami and I am completing my ‘O-dark-thirty’ trek. This morning my routine was the same, though the story I shared with him was anything but routine.

Wayne, being a man of few words, generally allows me to do most of the talking. However, having heard my fateful tale, he responded with,

“Maybe you should ride in the daylight, rather than the dark!”

I responded with,

“Very wise advice. Maybe you’re right!”

There’s a scene in the movie, “The Karate Kid” in which ‘Daniel-son’ interacts with an Okinawan bully.

Our hero speaks.

“Hey man. I’m not looking for trouble!”

To which the local thug responds,

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

I can relate

As a freshman in high school I learned an old Irish prayer. It seems rather fitting here:

"From ghoulies, and ghosties and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us."

And “one more for the road.”

Since I wrote the foregoing description of several scenarios to which I have been exposed during my morning bike treks over the years, I have been forced to relinquish my recurring ‘spin’ in favor of putting one foot in front of the other. (But that is a whole ‘nother story).

At any rate, as I was putting in my ‘morning 2’ (as in two miles) today, and had turned off Highway 540 onto Spirit Lake Road, (an apt name) and was walking down the parallel sidewalk, I happened on a rather bewildering sight.

And while the entire situation fell together in the space of eight or ten seconds, and due to the darkness I was not able to discern what the individual was initially ‘up to,’ a tall, slender male (or female) suddenly bounded across the front yard, and ran in a serpentine pattern towards a nearby bush.

Arriving at the moderately tall bush, my ‘momentary friend’ crouched down behind it, and while squatting there continued to hold my gaze. And very much like a recent Progressive Insurance commercial, he (or she) continued to squat “right there in front of God and everybody,” as I passed within twenty paces or him (or her).

And while at 225 pounds I “cut a mean figure,” and while the metal cane which I held was capable of inflicting significant damage, I admit to looking over my right shoulder ‘til I’d left the ethereal him (or her) far behind.

Given the abject weirdness of the moment, I was tempted to utter a few words; in hopes of staving off the possibility of an unlikely attack. In retrospect I might have done well to shout, “Ready or not, here I come” (or) “Dost thou think that yonder bush covereth thee sufficiently? No, yon phantom. It does not” (or) “Do you realize how utterly stupid you look squatting behind that bush?”

At this stage, I cannot be sure why I held my peace. But I think I may have done so to forestall the most likely possible response…

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

by William McDonald, PhD

AN ENCOUNTER WITH MR. ROGERS

 4055

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard some oddly familiar music on someone's TV."

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

(Allison Carter, USA Today)

SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

 4054

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint. 

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

by William McDonald, PhD

FAT ELVIS

4053

Pt. 1

Before anyone dumps all sorts of derogatory messages on me re. the title of this blog, please understand that in titling this bit of writing the way I have, I mean no disrespect for the (almost) living legend that is Elvis. However, you will soon understand the reason why I felt compelled to use the two word moniker that I have.

I listen to “Elvis Radio” Channel 19 every time I set my derriere onto the driver’s seat of my automobile, put it in gear, and attempt to fulfill my sundry commitments for that day. This morning, as I drove to a not so distant town to do a safety meeting for my construction crew, I listened to an interview between E.A.P.’s high school friend, George Klein (the primary DJ on Elvis Radio), and Wink Martindale, the 70’s-80’s-90’s gameshow host.

It so happens that Sandy Martindale, (Wink’s wife) dated Elvis ‘way back when’ and she was with him (Wink, not Elvis) in this morning’s interview. Sometime before (or after) the two married, Sandy and Wink developed a close mutual relationship with ‘The King of Rock & Roll,’ and often attended his performances.

And as it fell together, the couple last saw Elvis at a Las Vegas show shortly before his passing. And what they saw left them mortified. Elvis was obviously in poor health, and had gained a great deal of weight. No doubt, they were aware that the greatest male singer of all time had regularly indulged himself with prescription, and possibly other substances. The most disinterested lay person could see it in his eyes. While he seemed to maintain his cognitive abilities, such as his skill with the recall of songs, his countenance and physical condition spoke volumes.

As Wink and Sandy visited in Elvis’ dressing room before the show, they noticed sweat beading on his forehead, and it occurred to both of them that this could well be the last time they would ever lay eyes on the most famous and gifted man on the planet. As the interview neared its conclusion, Wink mentioned that Elvis seemed hesitant to leave them, though his next show was only moments away.

Ultimately, the couple said their ‘adieu’s’ and departed the premises. On their way out, they stopped long enough to write a note for Elvis, and left it with the King’s ‘right hand man;’ (whose name escapes me at the moment).

The note read roughly as follows:

 

Elvis

We would love for you to come visit with us in our home for a few weeks.

This would give you an opportunity to rest, lose weight, and regain your health. People tell me (Sandy) that I am a good cook, and I don’t think you’d regret staying with us a while and dining at our table. Hope to hear from you soon.

Love & Prayers,

Wink & Sandy

Pt. 2

One might have thought George Klein would have changed the subject, and prevented the Martindale’s from telling the story. But this was not the case.

I must say I have been pleasantly surprised at how open ‘The Elvis Channel’ and its DJ’s have been with the radio public in regard to ‘the good, bad and the ugly’ which transpired during THE American Idol’s all too brief 42 years on earth.

There’s a poignant passage in the movie, “A River Runs Through It.”

In speaking of his father, the main character, Norman Maclean, reminisces.

 

l remember the last sermon

l heard him give;

not long before his own death…

Each one of us here today will,

at one time in our lives...

look upon a loved one who is in need

and ask the same question.

"We are willing to help, Lord...

but what, if anything, is needed?"

It is true we can seldom help

those closest to us.

Either we don't know what part

of ourselves to give...

or more often than not,

the part we have to give...

is not wanted.

And so it is those we live with

and should know who elude us...

but we can still love them.

We can love completely...

without complete understanding.

At least during this particular interview, Wink and Sandy Martindale never disclosed whether Elvis responded to their offer that he visit with them, lose weight and attempt to regain his former health.

We can be sure, however, that if he responded at all it was not of the affirmative kind; since the well-known gameshow host and his wife

…never saw Elvis again.

 

I think Wink and Sandy were a lot like the kind of people of whom that old preacher alluded in his final sermon, the sort of folks who reach out in love to those near and dear to themselves; though bereft of any understanding.

One can only wonder how history might have been rewritten had Elvis taken them up on their gracious offer. Perhaps the King of Rock & Roll would have given us the gift of a few more years and a few more songs.

by William McDonald, PhD