MORE THAN ONE PERSON USES YOUR NAME

     The year was 1972. I was a personnel clerk with The United States Air Force, stationed at MacDill Air Force Base, Florida. I was proud of myself, my service, and my family. I worked to make a living. But my life was my church.

     God must have a special way of “bringing us down”. I’m convinced that he does this, not on a whim, but deliberately and on purpose.

    One Sunday, much like so many other Sundays, I sat in the morning service with my wife and small children. Things were rolling along. The choir had sang, and visitors were greeted, and structure was having it’s regular way. But what happened next will always be remembered by… Me; (I doubt another living soul remembers at this point.)

     It was time for prayer. The pastor never omitted this very important segment of the worship service. Pastor Matheny stepped to the podium and looked out over the audience. After a slight pause, he spoke, “Brother Mc Donald, will you come and offer prayer for the sick, and those who have just expressed their needs.” Well, this had never occurred before. I had never been asked to pray in the main service at this very large church. God had finally decided to honor me; a young man doing his best to serve Him, as best I knew how.

     I stood up, and as I did I felt a little tug at my coat. I realized later that my wife was putting me on my guard. At the time however, I was totally oblivious to her warning. I found myself walking down that long aisle to the front. (Surely the pastor didn’t mean for me to pray aloud from my seat.)

     I arrived at the front, and realized that pastor had been watching my approach with a good deal of curiosity. Suddenly a voice, like the voice of God echoed throughout the sanctuary. Like God speaking from out the flaming bush, “Yes, Bill, do you need prayer?”

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I was not The Brother McDonald being called forward! For at the same time I was making The Long Walk, another kindly old man had stepped to the pulpit. His name? Why, of course… Brother McDonald.

      I still remember that day after thirty years of lesser memories, now consigned to the “inactive files” of my mind. Embarrassed? You better believe it! It’s still a little humbling to remember that day, but I can smile about it now. I certainly couldn’t then.

     God has used such ancient memories like that to keep me humble. Why, only a few months ago He did it again. I was scheduled to speak at a nearby church. The pastor and I had arranged a seminar related to Child Discipline. The youth of the church had passed out hundreds of leaflets throughout town. The seminar had been announced on the radio. And the day dawned upon us.

    The time to begin came and went, and our audience failed to appear. By the time we disbanded the event, two people had seated themselves. We had more stage participants than that. Humble pie! It felt like I’d been punched. It took me two weeks to get over that seeming defeat. Apparently my prospective seminarians were watching Saturday cartoons, or washing clothes.

  

      I’m glad that God has a sense of humor, and a way of humbling us. It makes life interesting.


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions," Copyright 2005

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I'LL BE RIGHT BACK

Several years ago my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such speakers as Damaris Carbaugh, the mother of Ellen (degenerate) Degeneres’ former girlfriend, (who was decidedly against the gay agenda), and of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.

Well, for anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.

Apparently, one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the, well, schedule.

It can safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the auditorium I found myself completely

… alone.

And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 3^rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank. Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).

At any rate, as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you guessed it)

… Ruth Graham.

Ruth, (if I may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,

“I’ll be right back!”

As I recall, I sheepishly responded with,

“Uh, Okay.”

The well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known, except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.

Interacting at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if we were acquainted.

I refer to such scenarios as

“creating memories.”

And though, if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,

… I never will.


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. "Family Blogs." Copyright 2008

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SWIMMING IN SWAN LAKE. Pts. 1-3

Last night I attended my first ballet.

I admit it. I’m a slight introvert. While its nothing for me to sit in a counseling office and give advice to an individual, couple or family, or ‘wax eloquent’ (or sing a solo) before an audience of hundreds, it only took me 2/3 of a century to get around to making my way into such an auspicious environment as a Russian ballet.

Did I say I was a slight introvert? Well, based on my previous description of myself, we might both agree that introvertism, per se, can be a bit convoluted. For you see, my ‘slightly more than slight’ tendency towards introvertism is confined to environments with which I have not previously familiarized myself.

As my wife and I rolled onto the asphalt of the Lakeland Center, and I aimed my automobile into the sparsely filled parking lot, I was (not pleasantly) surprised to see a booth looming before me occupied by a figure dressed in an attendant’s uniform. And it immediately dawned upon me that in spite of the $124.00 I’d already ‘shelled out’ for ballet tickets, the City of Lakeland was about to ‘take me to the cleaners’ through the use of one of the most outrageous kind of fees ever designed by a committee.

“That will be $8 sir.”

Did I mention my introvertism never manifests itself in a tendency to ‘going quietly like a lamb?” (Well, it doesn’t).

And thus, I responded with,

“$8? That is absolutely ludicrous. I know it’s not your fault, but this parking lot was long since paid for by the time Ben Franklin was weaned.”

(Well, to be fair, I was slightly less descriptive than that).

As I pulled into my chosen space my wife asked me,

“Why do you find it necessary to humiliate yourself in front of strangers?”

To which I cheerfully responded,

“Au contraire. There’s nothing humiliating about it. Why, earlier today I was on the CNN Facebook page, and I informed that auspicious (non)news network that their initials are carved into the wall of a particular presidential library; in honor of the only husband and wife who both ran for the highest office in the land; only one of which achieved their goal.”

Pt. 2

Well, having satisfied my urge to criticize an $8 fee so that a two ton inanimate vehicle might be authorized to cover a 70 square foot patch of asphalt for two hours, the pain in my psyche, (though not in my wallet) was ever so slightly assuaged.

Did I use the word, ‘slightly?’ And did I mention I am slightly more than slightly introverted; at least in regard to one facet of the ‘malady’? (I thought so). It might be helpful, at this point, for my readers to understand that given such a prestigious event as “Swan Lake,” as performed by The Russian State Ballet, it is my habit to do everything in my power to compensate for my ineptitude. Thus, I had attired myself in my one and only black business suit and attractive burgundy pullover, (and was pleased with the effect).

It was only as Jean and I walked towards the portal of the Lakeland Center that I realized …how desperately overdressed I was. For in spite of the nature of the event and the caliber of the troupe which was scheduled to perform it, men in slacks and shirt sleeves preceded me to the door. As a result, those old feelings of insecurity came creeping over me for an altogether different reason. My attempt to dress for the occasion singled me out from the majority of the other men in the auditorium. But as a consolation prize it was insightful to be (so experientially) informed that only bare chests and saggy pants were prohibited in this stratospheric environment.

Having been directed to Orchestra seats J7 & J8, my wife and I proceeded to make ourselves comfortable. However, I can tell you that my slightly more than slightly introverted psyche was, by this time, much more comfortable than the seat upon which I had installed my derriere. For you see, though the entire row was vacant, save my wife and I, and another couple, the cushion upon which I sat was a bit narrow for my hinder parts. And as unfortunate as this happened to be, every armrest in the theater was intended for the use of…the left and right arms, respectively, of the occupant and their nearest neighbor.

Needing a diversion from my anatomical misery, I glanced towards the stage and noticed the orchestra pit was filled with adults and children of various ages. And I thought to myself, “Self, remind me never to choose a seat in the orchestra pit.” How absurdly eye-numbing, and neck aching it would be to sit three feet below a host of 20 ballet dancers; doing what ballet dancers do best. But it was then I thought, “to each his own,” and settled back to watch the Russians ‘strut their stuff.’

Well, about this time Tchaikovsky’s composition filled the auditorium. And since neither Tchaikovsky, nor an orchestra representing his melodious score could be seen in any corner or level of the place, (certainly not in the orchestra pit) I rightly presumed we were listening to what has been referred to as, ‘music in a can.’

Pt. 3

The long-awaited moment was upon us, the embroidered red-layered curtain lifted, and a slightly more subdued medieval scene, depicting a castle and forest landscape, replaced that which had most recently filled up our view.

As the ballet of all ballets commenced costumed men and women graced the stage with their respective presences, and fluttered to and fro, here and yon; with all the allegro and pirouette common to such an impressive undertaking.

But as impressed as I was with the extraordinary ability of the cast, and as much as I strove to interpret the sequence of events which played themselves out on the stage, I was lost to account for any rhyme or reason or unified plot.

And though both my wife and I were abject novices to the ballet, I think I intuitively lent her a bit more insight, than I might have otherwise done. I mean, she knew these people. At the very least, members of their tribe. For she had walked the well-worn pavement stones of Red Square, admired the cavernous innards of the Moscow Subway, and spent American dollars at a Russian roadside flea market.

But as I looked longingly into her eyes, they seemed to be… as blank and without understanding as I imagined my own. And as long and arduous had been our (2 hour) plight to understand the lives and love of Odette and Prince Siegfried, it was only after a waft of sudden insight from the most unlikely source that won the day, and saved our figurative souls from the same drear outcome of the hero and heroine of the story which had so richly been unfolding before us.

The Internet!!!

Having retrieved ye old smart phone from her purse, and having googled the title of our favorite (and only) ballet to date,… theory put on reality and invisible put on substance.

We understood

The proverbial curtains of our eyes were lifted, as surely as the original had risen to reveal all that lay just behind it.

As a counselor I have often stressed the value of exposing one’s self to circumstances and conditions which have, heretofore, instilled fear or promulgated stagnation in one’s life. And as my clients have stretched themselves and stripped off the invisible bonds which stifled their spirits, and limited their potential, they have expanded their horizons and embraced new mindsets.

Last night I was the unwary victim of my own therapy,

…and swam the tenuous waters of Swan Lake.

**Note - As you might guess, my tendency for introvertism has been a bit exaggerated here for effect.


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 47. Copyright pending

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#59299 & MY TRUE CONFESSIONS. Pts. 1-4

Our Catholic brethren have instituted the tradition of Confession in which faithful members of that sect regularly step into something akin to a double telephone booth and confess their sins to a priest; at which point said priest admonishes the supplicant to say 10 or 20 ‘Our Father’s’ and ‘Hail Mary’s’ as penance for their spiritual transgressions; (and possibly crimes).

They say confession is good for the soul.

Well, there may be something to it since I’m inclined to confess a few things I’ve kept hidden for, well, as long as I remember.

And it so happens that all of my transgressions, at least all I care to share with you, occurred in and about my 20 year tenure at UPS, and more specifically in and about truck numbers 59299 and 59358. (I can only wonder whether said trucks have, by now, been transformed into stethoscopes, doorknobs and car tags).

At any rate, there were several circumstances in which I was involved, at the time, that seemed anything but humorous, but which, in retrospect, now elicit a smile, and perhaps even a hearty chuckle.

The chronology of the follow events are, by now, out of mind and memory; though not a myriad of details surrounding them.

There was the time I found myself delivering packages to vendors at our local Orange Festival. Somehow I got wedged between two rows of cars, and found myself with very little room to maneuver ‘Big Brown Bessie.’ Backing up one too many times, and an inch too much, I heard a crunch. Dismounting my vehicle I realized I’d backed into someone’s private vehicle.

Given the almost insignificant results of my vehicular shenanigans, and considering the hopelessness of locating the owner of the automobile amongst the vast crowd, I made the momentary decision to …depart the premises. I can only wonder if Jim or Jane noticed his or her front bumper the next morning, noted the unusual paint residue, and exclaimed,

“That potty brown color looks a lot like the Big Bessie my UPS man drives.”

If so, the powers that be remained uninformed and I kept on keeping on.

Speaking of accidents, UPS drivers were allowed one a year; ‘whether we needed it or not.’ And when our mileage and number of starts and stops were taken into consideration, it was a minor grace, indeed.

There was the time that I drove a bit too close to an offending tree branch, and heard the all too familiar sound of paint being scraped from Old Bessie. Pulling my aluminum friend over to the curb, I unsnapped my seat belt, negotiated the three steps on the passenger side of the vehicle, and ‘took a gander’ at my handiwork. “Yep,” I thought. “I did a job on it.” (And indeed, I had). It goes without saying that given a scenario such as this, our drivers were expected to report the infraction. And it goes without saying that such a report, no matter how minor, was ‘added to the tab.’ (Needless to say, a second infraction was grounds for termination).

At that time, (and perhaps thirty years later) it was usual for our mechanic to ‘brush stroke’ the offended area with UPS custom tint, and send it on its way; with a permanent shot of spray paint later in the week. And given this variable I made the precarious decision to drive my injured metal friend in the direction of the nearest car and truck hospital. Pulling up to paint shop, I jumped out, walked briskly to the window, and (minus any specifics) asked whether they had any paint of the desirable shade. They did. And before I left the paint shop, I did; with a brush to go with it. That evening I chose a little traveled route towards my local UPS center, pulled onto the shoulder of the road, and applied a modest bit of potty brown paint to the wounded area. Did I mention I kept a few ounces of the stuff in my stash at home should history repeat itself? (Well, I did).

                                                   

Pt. 2

Christmas at UPS was the ‘funnest’ time of the year. (Not).

Our workload doubled. And it wasn’t unusual to find one’s self with a couple dozen remaining delivery packages as midnight approached. Did I mention that midnight was our curfew? Did I mention our boss took a dim view of a driver bringing back more than one or two undelivered parcels? (Well, he did).

One evening in December, as ‘the bewitching hour’ approached, I pulled up to my next delivery stop, slung open the bulkhead door and cast my eyes upon a couple dozen undelivered packages on the 4^th shelf, bottom. As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ of the volume and movie, “Jane Eyre” was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?”

Since my home was situated on my delivery route, I often dropped by for lunch. This time around I dropped by for a different reason. Backing my UPS truck up to my garage, I lifted the heavy door and unloaded my remaining packages onto the concrete floor. I summarily entered the number and affiliated address of each of the packages on my delivery pad with the notation each had been left at the front or side door. Did I mention what I’d just accomplished was contrary to everything holy? Well, it was. (At least, when it came to the UPS bible).

Having returned home that evening my wife and I loaded the offending packages into the back seat and trunk of our car, and (you guessed it) navigated the remaining several streets of a nearby mobile home park; tip-toeing my inanimate darlings to 4537 Redwood and 4657 Oakwood, etc. etc. etc., until every last package had been delivered.

And then there were the dogs.

Closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city. And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5^th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5^th Street, SE was very much like any other street in “Winter Haven,” (the location of the famous, “Cypress Gardens,”) with one exception,

… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.

There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.

Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been

… Destination Dog

As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and

… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!

And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”

Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.

And I think I know why!

Pt. 3

As the sun set on the western horizon, I generally found myself on Thornhill Road, and when my last package was recent history I pulled over into a grassy area of a mobile home park to complete my paperwork.

One August day I repeated the same closing ceremony which I had repeated many times before. With one unique difference. As I pulled away and prepared to turn right in pursuit of the local UPS center, my back tandem tires rolled over …something. There was no mistaking it. Bump! Bump! Unbuckling my seatbelt I negotiated the three steps to the street,

…and saw him lying in the grass where he had crawled; after I’d so rudely rolled over him with my 3.5 ton Brown Bessie.

The German Shepherd lay dying, and there was little or nothing I could do about it. After a few remaining spasms his ribcage relaxed, and with a soft gasp, he breathed his last. To say I felt badly would have been a gross understatement. The dog had apparently crawled up under my truck to escape the heat, and when I cranked the engine he’d had very little time to rouse himself before…

I attempted to locate his owner to report the situation, but to no avail. No one seemed to know anything about the unfortunate canine, but having notified my supervisor, I was forced to leave the beast lying in the spot where he’d crawled; after having been so rudely dispatched. Funny, it is only in the last few minutes that I have reflected on the notion that, after the mishap took place, the poor beast crawled out from under the vehicle.

Ever since that fateful day I have mentally branded the animal with the name, “Shadow;” since he’d found his way under my delivery vehicle, and into the shadows, to escape the heat of the day. As a spiritual person I tend to believe all pets go to heaven; at least those which we claim for heaven. And would it surprise you to know, I expect to see Shadow there? (Well, I do). One of the first things I plan to do, one of the first actions I plan to take when I arrive there is

…to apologize to Shadow for having dispatched him before his time, and so rudely robbing him of a long and happy life.

Pt. 4

George Baird, my supervisor, was riding with me that day. From time to time, and only a couple minutes before I pulled out of the building, (and much to my chagrin) he’d surprise me with a,

“Hey Bill, I’ll be riding with you today.”

And with that, he’d slip a portable jump seat into the passenger frame of the cab, and off we’d go.

The day had been somewhat uneventful, as George and I rolled up and down the streets and boulevards of Winter Haven until… I discovered a package I’d neglected to deliver. Well, I can tell you I wasn’t real impressed, and I knew my supervisor would be even less impressed than me to have to retrace the path from whence we’d come. And thus, I transgressed another verse in the UPS bible. Not unlike Aiken of old, I hid my little treasure amongst a multitude of pickup packages in the back of my truck. And before the day was over, I did it a second time. And it seemed that old George was none the wiser for it;

…with the emphasis on ‘seemed.’

For you see, when we pulled into the UPS center, and I opened the back bulkhead so the truck could be unloaded, George B. joined me on the dock, and pulled out one, and then the second of my hidden treasures.

“Bill, can you tell me what this is all about?”

He’d known all the time, but decided to wait ‘til we returned to address my little transgression.

I suppose I ‘hemmed and hauled around’ a moment, and finally countered with the most common lie of all time.

“Uh, I really don’t know.”

(and)

“I had no idea they were there.”

Well, suffice it to say Old George had pity on poor deceitful little me for, as I recall, he merely shook his head, and walked away. After he left, I retrieved the parcels and stuck them on the first shelf so that they could be delivered the next day. (“Grace and Mercy there was free.” At least on that particular day).

And did I tell you about the nudist?

(I can tell you, I LOL when I recall the event).

I was well on my way to the conclusion of my work day when I turned right on Lake Eloise Drive. And since I had a delivery package for #769, (a fictional number, but a very real happening) I pulled off the road, retrieved the parcel and walked down the driveway to the house. A wall minus a garage door separated me from the domicile now. And as I walked around the wall, and into the carport, I found myself face to face with

…a very naked man!

“Mr. Smith” had apparently been swimming in the adjoining creek, and upon returning to his garage had divested himself of his bathing suit; with the intent of opening his front door and retrieving his street clothes.

You would have thought I caught him robbing a bank!

“Oh my! Oh no! I’m sorry! Please don’t tell anybody you saw me like this!”

Well, he couldn’t have been any more surprised than me, and no doubt I promised to keep his little secret.

I just caught myself in another lie.

Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.

I’ve considered sending a bill to UPS for my ongoing services.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Family Blogs" Copyright 2010. 

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FORREST GUMP SR & FORREST GUMP JR

I’ve watched the movie, “Forrest Gump” so many times I can almost quote the main character before he speaks the words, as well as ‘Jenny’ and ‘Lt. Dan’ and the rest of the assorted cast.

And though I enjoyed watching the entire movie the first twenty eight or thirty times, at this point I have committed the video and audio to memory, so there is little point in wading through it. But to be fair I can still handle ten or twelve minutes of Forrest when he happens to ‘knock on my door’ (or vice versa).

However, in spite of my profound acquaintance with the movie I noticed something tonight which had largely escaped me in the past; at least in terms of the depth and scope thereof.

For you see, Forrest was a father.

(Yes, he was).

There is that memorable scene in which he realizes how close Jenny’s residence is to the bench upon which he sits waiting for a bus. And bidding a hasty ‘goodbye’ to another prospective passenger, he jogs the five blocks which separates him from the love of his life.

Forrest knocks on the apartment door and his sweet Jenny greets him with a surprised smile. And as they ‘make up for lost time’ a neighbor lady drops off Jenny’s son, and departs the premises.

Forrest speaks.

“Jenny, you’re a mama!”

And she proceeds to introduce the pair.

“Forrest, this is Mr. Gump.”

The eight year old has been taught well.

“Hello, Mr. Gump.”

As the lad makes his way over to the t.v. set Jenny notices the question forming in Forrest’ eyes.

“His daddy is named Forrest.”

The young man responds.

“Just like me.”

And Jenny flashes a smile that would light up Savannah and exclaims,

“You’re his daddy, Forrest!”

A look of amazement turns into unspoken dread, as Forrest Sr. thinks out loud.

“But is he like …me or is he…?”

Jenny immediately reassures him.

“He’s one of the smartest children in his class.”

With this, a sense of calm seems to envelope Forrest Sr. and his eyes and body language indicate a desire to spend a bit of quality time with little Forrest. Of course, Jenny acquiesces and Sr. walks the ten paces which separates him from his newly discovered son, takes a seat on the floor next to Jr., and they strike up a conversation about the ‘Sesame Street’ television show he’s watching.

Pt. 2

Before Forrest Sr. departs Savannah for home Jenny proposes something that he’d daydreamed about since he was his son’s age.

“Would you marry me, Forrest?”

There could be only one answer, and the trio make their way back to Greenbow, Alabama, (by one unknown conveyance or another, for this scene is absent from the movie).

For any of my readers who have not seen this classic film, it seems in all of her ‘comings and goings’ Jenny had contracted the (at that time) still misunderstood AID’s virus. And shortly after having married Forrest the love of his life succumbs to the illness.

Who can forget the waning moments of the movie?

Forrest Sr. stands before Jenny’s headstone, just under the massive oak tree upon which they used to lull away the hours, and he tenderly speaks to his dearly departed wife.

“Jenny, little Forrest wanted me to drop this letter off this morning. He told me not to open it. It’s for you.”

And with this the dutiful husband lays the little envelope next to the marble headstone, and tears spring to his eyes.

“I miss you, Jenny!”

 (and)

“If there’s anything you need, I won’t be far away.”

And having bid his farewells, Forrest steps back and makes his way towards home.

Pt. 3

If you have ever seen the movie, you know in the thirty five or so years which the film depicts our ‘slightly slow’ hero experienced more than most people experience in a lifetime.

He has set the standard for college football excellence, and gained notoriety on the running circuit. He has ‘rubbed shoulders’ with rock stars and conferred with presidents. He has entertained the Chinese Politburo with his ping pong skills, and won the Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroics in Vietnam. He has amassed millions in the shrimp boat business, and was Time magazine’s Man of the Year.

However, as the movie concludes, Forrest Sr. and Forrest Jr. have settled into a life of peaceful obscurity, and father and son sit waiting for little Forrest’ school bus; a hundred yards from the aged two story wooden house in which the humble, unobtrusive man had grown up.

As the bus draws to a stop, and as Jr. greets Dorothy Harris, the very driver who at one time transported Sr., the latter makes eye contact with his son, and exclaims,

“Forrest, I want you to know I love you.”

(and)

“I’ll be right here when you get back.”

For all his former claim to fame, riches and notoriety, it seems he has discovered his true calling. I think anyone would do well to have a father like

…Forrest Gump.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt, "The Stories of my Life V," Copyright 2007

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POWERING UP THE GRID. Pt. 3

Did I mention those old North Carolina boys have been thoroughly impressed with the treatment the City of Bartow, and its citizens have extended towards them?

(Well, they have).

I mean all you have to do is ask them; (and a couple of television reporters did).

A older lineman named, “John” gave the following testimonial.

“I have NEVER done contract work like this, anywhere, where I have been treated SO well by the local folk. I mean, can you imagine people washing your clothes, and feeding you three squares a day?”

His regional twang became more noticeable now.

“I told my wife about what was going on down here, and well, we’ve decided that when my work is finally done, …we’re retiring in Bartow!”

A different network interviewed a younger lineman, and “Matthew” said something just as surprising.

“I just can’t believe a place like this still exists. The people of this town have been SO good to us, and I can tell you there are some pretty fine looking young ladies in Bartow. And…I’ve decided I’m going to move down here and marry one of them!”

Did I mention the little community of Bartow is a pretty idyllic place?

(Yeah, I thought I did).


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 70. Copyright pending
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POWERING UP THE GRID. Pt. 2

(Read Pt. 1 prior to reading Pt. 2)

Did I mention that Bartow is an idyllic place? (Well, it is). Did I mention it has retained its hometown flavor, though almost three quarters of a century have come and gone since my family moved there? (Well, it has).

In the week and a half since that nasty ole storm marched through our fair portion of the world, Bartow has hosted a small minority of the ‘Electric Troops’ which have inundated Florida. The city has allowed them to use the civic center as their headquarters, and it seems the majority of the linemen ‘come out of’ the Raleigh, North Carolina service area.

To say the good people of Bartow have been kind and compassionate towards its professional guests would be like saying that Jesse Owens was a pretty fair runner. Bartowans have, to put it mildly, ‘fallen all over themselves’ to treat the linemen well.

I mean, these men and women are provided ‘three hot’s’ a day in the civic center dining room, there is enough bottled water in the corner of the room to sink a battle ship, they sleep on cots in another area of the air conditioned building, and (drum roll) the local women folk wash their dirty clothing. (For all I know, they are allowed to swim in the civic center pool when they return from their daily duties).

I have read the articles, seen the photographs, and watched a couple of the interviews hosted by a couple of Tampa TV stations.

I thought my accent was ‘thick.’ I mean, I have been accused by my students and clients of having originated in Georgia, South Carolina, Tennessee, Mississippi, and even Texas. However, the ‘tilt’ of the words coming out of the linesmen’s mouths makes me sound like I was born in the Midwest.

(to be continued)

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 70. Copyright pending

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