The Arter Family---You've Gotta Love 'Em!

Last night my next door neighbor, Joni, rang our doorbell at about 9 p.m...she had brought a large slab of the most delicious cake we've ever eaten (chocolate with chocolate icing), made by their daughter, Paige. The cake was unbelievable! Paige has a GIFT for baking, and makes the best pies and cakes in Edmond! She's so young to be so talented!...and yet it's not just her skills in the kitchen. She's also growing up in the same mold as her Mom and Dad, who spend a good part of every day, looking for ways to do nice things for people. Who doesn't know of the wonderful Thanksgiving Day Turkey Extravaganza that Neil's and Jimmy's families organize every year? Who is not aware of the hundreds of people who are invited into Neil and Joni's home every year, for food and fellowship?

There's no telling how many peoples' lives have been influenced by the generosity and selflessness of the Arter family! Small wonder, then, that their daughters are growing up with servant hearts-- just like Mom and Dad.

Paula and I have had a chance-- first hand-- to see how 'love for others' happens in families. We have met, and have been the recipients of many kindnesses from the parents of Neil and Jimmy. Paula has been invited to go to their farm and pick wild blackberries and morels. We have received numerous cuttings of special plants that grow around their home in Lindsay. I have a huge petrified wood log in my yard -- courtesy of Wesley and Janet (who know that we love rocks!).

The love for others and the 'giving qualities' that are hallmarks of Janet and Wesley are emulated by Neil and Jimmy. Now, we see those same wonderful qualities being passed down to another generation in that family....most recently in the sharing of pies and cakes baked by Paige!

How many people have been influenced for good due to the wonderful, God-like qualities of this wonderful family? You've got to love the Arter family!

Isn't it amazing how one God-like qualities can be developed in one generation after another in a family?

Thanks, Arters, for being the best neighbors in the world! We love you guys! Paige, keep up your culinary skills -- you're a WOMDER!..in or out of the kitchen! You've won our hearts!


Gene and Paula

The magic of Santa!

When Gena and Jeff were little, and very much enchanted with the idea of Santa and his reindeer, I decided to make Santa a little more real! I used one of my pocket tape recorders to make a tape of my best 'HO-HO-HO' Santa voice. I left about two minutes of blank tape before the recording, so that after I turned on the tape recorder and stashed it up inside the hearth of a cold fireplace, I would have time for Paula and I to get the kids into the living room, with the pretext of our having heard Santa and his reindeer up on our roof.

Gena and Jeff ran into the living room, in their pajamas, and were all goggle-eyed at the prospect of seeing and hearing the real Santa Claus at our house! I opened the glass doors to the hearth, so they could more easily hear the taped 'HO-HO-HO' of Santa, and then told them to be very quiet, so we wouldn't scare Santa off. Santa, you see, doesn't like to make appearances directly in front of families. The kids understood this 'truth' about Santa, so they were very quiet, as they stood there, quietly giggling, with huge grins on their faces! All of a sudden, they heard a loud 'HO-HO-HO!' coming from the fireplace. Gena looked at me, and then she realized that I was NOT Santa (she had heard from friends at school and in our neighborhood that there was no 'REAL' Santa, and that her Dad was the only Santa at our house). She looked a little bit surprised, but happily so, to find that her Dad was NOT Santa! I told them to stay inside, while I ran out behind our house to get a glimpse of Santa. I told them to stay inside -- that kids are not supposed to see Santa on Christmas Eve. They dutifully stayed inside while I ran out the back door, to a spot on the porch where I had stashed a nice set of borrowed sleigh bells (real ones, I might add -- big suckers!). I shook them, making a lot of noise, did a couple of signature 'HO-HO-HO's, threw a couple of things up on the roof, for 'reindeer-hoof' simulations, and then excitedly ran back inside, exclaiming that I had seen Santa and his reindeer on our roof!

Gena and Jeff were jumping up and down from excitement! Then Gena asked when Santa would come back with the presents. We told Gena and Jeff that he would be back when they were in bed and asleep!

That was a fun evening....and Santa was saved from 'reality' for another Christmas! Christmas is always fun, but there is nothing that compares to a Christmas with little ones and the magic of Santa!

Merry Christmas from the Shoemake's!!!!! :)

Holiday Eggnog...and Memories!

Every year when Winter arrives, a parade of memories makes it way down the 'mental street' where I live. The parade begins soon after the deparure of the 'Thanksgiving mental parade' passes by, along with turkey leftovers, dressing and gravy and cranberry sauce, pumpkins, scarecrows, bales of hay, and the cornucopia of offerings from the farmer's fields.

When I was young, holidays always had a lot to do with food (can you look at me and doubt it for a second?). My Mom, as well as my dad's Mom-- "Tennie", always baked a lot and made holidays a warm, magical time. Part of the good times was the annual trip from Dallas, Galveston, LaMarque or Houston, Texas -- cities where we lived at one time or another in the 40's, 50's and 60's -- to Sherman, Texas, where Tennie and her husband, my grandad Eugene, lived. In addition to the Christmas tree, slathered with ancient ornaments and 'tinsel icicles', and the old-timey Christmas lights, there was always an abundance of baked goodies of every kind. You know, the kind YOUR Mom and grandma made or still make.

There was always a lot of laughing and the telling of good stories as we all gathered in Tennie's warm kitchen (the warmest spot in her drafty little white wood-frame home). The grownups would stand around, dressed in bright holiday attire, and someone would bring out the eggnog. Ths eggnog was not purchased, but it was 'made' -- from 'scratch', if you will, and it was sinfully rich. From under her kitchen sink, Tennie would bring out the bottle of whisky that was kept there for the treatment of colds, and, uh... and the occasional unidentified upper respiratory ailment..... (conspicuous grin here). Although Tennie retrieved the bottle, the distribution of whisky from that big, old bottle, was always done by the Patriarch of the family, Eugene. Dispensing of liquor was always 'man's work'. While Tennie poured the adults their Christmas cups of eggnog, Eugene would then, with quite a bit of ceremony, put a little whisky in the eggnog. Eggnog was thought to taste better with a little whisky in it. In fact, it did...and still does!...especially if sipped from the little clear glass eggnog cups with daisy-chained glass beads for handles!

You must understand that NO one in our family drank in those years. For a family where everyone was a member of a Church of Christ, drinking was verboten. So, to spike eggnog with whisky sort of made me, as a ten-year old, watching this annual event from the sidelines, feel a little like I was watching a scene of impending doom! I thought: "Surely the bowels of the earth would open and we will disappear at any moment, along with a backdrop of roiling, blue-black clouds, fierce winds and monstrous flashing daggers of lightning, to await our turn at the Judgment Bar, to be banished forever into the fiery pit of Hell!" Wrong! No fires of hell. Only another cup of eggnog. From all the raucous laughter, I always felt that the grownups had more than a tablespoon of 'good cheer' in their cups of eggnog....(hic!).

Nevertheless, as I watched the merry scene, filled with laughter and the funny stories that my Dad and his dad, Eugene, always shared with the rest of us at holiday get-togethers, I was given my glass of eggnog and then, with the grudging approval of my Mom and Dad, Eugene put a tablespoon of whiskey into my glass and stirred it with a spoon. I couln't believe it! I WAS GOING TO BE INCLUDED IN THE EGGNOG EVENT WITH ADULTS!!! I felt incredibly mature at that moment -- it was as though I was being inducted into some secret society. A rite of passage. No longer did I feel like a skinny, buck-toothed kid with carefully parted Brylcreamed hair with an ocean-breaker wave in front. No more! Now I felt like a real man, as I stood there with the other adults, with a moustache of eggnog on my upper lip!

I tasted my eggnog and liked it! The whisky gave it a different, but better taste. I enjoyed the eggnog, but what I enjoyed more, was the feeling of being accepted and loved and a part of the family. There were always Christmas carols, and wonderful desserts, and meals, fit for kings. There was always happiness and fun and gratitude for God for what we had. There was always a lot of hugging and kissing, and an assurance that we were FAMILY! The raucous laughter from Mom and Dad and Tennie and Eugene, and my older sister now only echo in my mind, as they have all gone on before me, to be with our Lord. My baby brother is gone as well, and there's only my brother George, with whom to share those old memories.

I still love eggnog. It's not just a holiday treat for me. It causes 'mental parades' that I enjoy every year. Like a little kid, sitting expectantly on the curb in a little town -- waiting for the parade to come around the corner -- holding his little holiday flag on a tiny stick-- I look forward to the memories of the sights and sounds of my holiday mental parades, along with mental 'Kodak vignettes' of people I have known and loved, march by, full of holiday cheer (and eggnog!), laughing and hugging and singing and telling stories that still warm my heart and make my eyes mist-over.

Thank you, Erick, my favorite son-in-law, for leaving a bottle of 'special spiked eggnog', wrapped in holiday paper and a ribbon on the windowsill by my front door last night--a random act of kindness and love. I had a small cup of it late last night, and the taste of it took me back 55 years, to a very special time in my life, Christmas Eve, 1954.

Passing the baton

Years ago I attended a little Christian college in Ft. Worth. It was tiny. Because it was tiny, I was, even though I had little talent for it, chosen to be on the track team.

I was not memorable as a member of the 440-yd. relay team, but we did all right at a few meets where people from other microscopically-tiny colleges and small universities gathered to compete and show their stuff.

The part I enjoyed was the passing of the baton. Baton-passing is an art form. If the approaching runner (who has the baton) is not careful, he will run over the man in front of him. If the runner in front (waiting to receive the baton) does not carefully judge when and how fast to take off running (while reaching back for the baton to be slapped into his hand), he will run off and leave the tired runner behind him in the dust!

Over the years, I have thought of baton-passing a number of times, in a number of different settings. Last week, I felt, as I have before, a sense of 'baton-passing' when my son Jeff and his beautiful wife, Candita, allowed Paula and I to share in the moments after their baby daughter was born. A new life -- born into a happy marriage. A new addition to a young family! We have experienced this twice before -- when Erick and Gena enjoyed the births of Raegan and Greyson Alexander. The cycle of life repeated again!

Parents all hope, as they see their children grow up and marry and have children of their own, that they, as parents, will have contributed in some way, to the 'next leg of the race' in life. As parents, we want so desperately to hand off the baton with great care. As in a relay, the handing off of the baton is so very important. More important than any athletic event, the successful handing off of the baton in life may pass on elements of faith, courage, hope, discipline, balance, gentleness of spirit, the love of beauty, an understanding of forgiveness and tolerance, love
of man and love of God. Come to think of it, the love of God encompasses ALL the other attributes! Parents all want to hand off such batons, for such are the yearnings of parents. How about you?...are you preparing to 'pass the baton' to others someday?

Just a thought I wanted to share tonight....

Life's Variables

My daughter Gena told me I might think of writing these posts with just a touch more brevity....so, in the spirit of good intentions, here goes:

Years ago, after experiencing and/or witnessing, in my life and the lives of others, many unusual twists and turns of health, life, death, fortune, poverty, and apparent spiritual benchmarks (both good and bad). I developed a brief, but, I think, all-inclusive description of the possibilities, or variables in all of our lives.

This is original with me, but if you are overwhelmed with the profundity of my observation, feel free to use it at will :).

It is either this...or that,
It is either you...or me,
It is either now...or later...
And eventually it is either heaven...or hell.

We can direct a lot of the things in our lives. We are given the ability to choose and apply reason and intellect to the use of our lives and our activities. We can, to some degree, control many aspects of our lives, through sound stewardship of what God has given us. We decide what we will eat and drink, what we will think about all day long. What we will do with our lives. We can choose our companions. We can direct our priorities. God has given us so much freedom to do as we wish. And yet--things happen to us!...we have health issues...we lose loved ones....we see innocent people, young and old, suffer. We gain and lose jobs...we gain and lose companions, children and friends.

So much of what happens to us seems inexplicable. Why? Why me? Why you?

I turn 65 next month, and I finally am at peace about these matters. It is now a simple thing for me to understand (You have to understand -- I'm not the brightest bulb on the porch. I think I have it figured out! Truly bright people say these things are beyond our understanding).

For me it is like this: We (Christians) are NOT to be people of 'empirical evidence'....with empirical evidence, blocks of truth are stacked, one on top of the other, until at the apex, one realizes the inescapable TRUTH. I don't think that's the way God wants us to be....I believe that we are a people who please God when we trust him...through good times and bad times. That trust is borne of our faith. We don't trust God just because a person gets a job, or because a sick person is healed...we trust God IN SPITE of the REALITIES of this world --- realizing that it is our complete trust in him that makes the angels sing!

Think of this: If good things only happened to Christians...they always got the pay raise or the good job; they always were healed of their maladies; they never got old and died; they never experienced the loss of a child or the heartbreak of divorce or abandonment -- if only Christians lived the good life, then where would be the need for faith? It is our faith that makes us pleasing to our God.

Since I came to understand this concept, I am more at peace with life...and the thought of death...or suffering, or other loss. I can take success...and I think I can accept hard times as well. We live in a world of what often appears to be 'random selection' --- good things and not-so-good things come to all of us. The only constant in all of life is the love of God for each of us.

I just wanted to share this today. As for my attempt at brevity, Gena, I'm sorry -- I'll try to do better next time!

Dad

Cheap dates -- great memories!

Back in the '60's, when I was a student at OCC (yes, I know, we don't call it that now...except that I still do), I didn't have a lot of money at times for dating. Sometimes I did, and sometimes I didn't. When I wanted to spend a wonderful afternoon with a special girl (or several of them!), nothing was any more special than a trek to the 'woods.' There used to be a wonderful place just south of the OCC campus -- east of Hardeman and west of Benson Rd., just to the south of Memorial Road. There were neat things hidden there in the woods --- an old abandoned home of some fellow named 'Schmidt' was a special attraction. It was REALLY abandoned, and was falling apart, but inside the home were thousands of books. They were stacked all over the floors in the different rooms. Some had been fashioned into beds by forest critters -- birds, raccoons, possums and the like. A number of windows had been knocked out and there were holes in a lot of the walls. Nevertheless, this was a special haunt of some of us who frequented the woods across the street from OCC.

There were other attractions around the home -- a huge mulberry tree attracted us like it attracted critters who also loved the berries. Eating those berries was an annual event that we really enjoyed. We would take a picnic lunch, a transistor radio and a blanket and make an afternoon of it. The old home had not been lived in for decades, and we found stacks of old tokens that had been used many years previously for the trolley that apparently ran from Edmond down into OKC.

There was one other surprise outside the old home -- daffodils! Hundreds of them --planted decades earlier and still blooming in the 1960's! That's where I decided that one day, if I ever had a home of my own, I would plant daffodils. I'm almost 65now, and I still buy 500 yellow daffodils and plant them (for myself and for others) every year.

The woods had another special attraction -- a rock waterfall! I would go there with girl friends -- lots of them -- (so many girls...so little time! :), and we would while away the afternoon carving our names in the large sandstone rocks that lined the creek bank.

I know that developers have destroyed that area now, but the memories remain vivid. So many memorable times with so many lovely girls! Most of these '60's friends are still friends -- after all these years. Although I am almost 65 now, and those days go back over 40 years-- in my mind, I am still that same carefree college kid, laughing and having a great time -- making unforgettable memories.

I treasure my years at OCC. My best 'life-friendships' were forged on and around the OCC campus. The guys and the girls who were close friends back in the '60's are still my best friends. New friends are great, but 40 to 45 year old friendships are hard to match, due to so many years of shared experiences. My goodness! -- life is wonderful!!

Eskimo Love

Last night Paula and I got to visit for a little while with some guests of our neighbors, Neil and Joni Arter. Their weekend guests were Ben and Jaime Bailey. We stood out in the cool night air in the cul-de-sac where we live and we had a nice visit. They were preparing to return to San Antonio this morning, and we visited about OC and people we all knew...and how the network of friends and acquaintances weaves like a huge web, with each new person we all mentioned leading us into further conversations about yet other people we all knew.

Come to find out, Ben is the son of James Bailey, a well-known minister in churches of Christ. Many, many years ago, (in what seems now to have been in a previous life), I had worked as the state representative for a company called Ministers Life. James and his wife, Marsha, were working with a church of Christ in Augusta, KS., and I had traveled there to visit with them about some life insurance coverage. When I left their home, I stopped in Wichita to spend the night at a Holiday Inn, and, as I was unloading my car for the night, an attractive woman pulled up behind my car, in her own late-model vehicle. She rolled down the window (later I thought she must have seen my out of state license plate and realized I was not from the local police department). She asked me for directions to some place in Wichita. I told her I couldn't help her ---since I was from out of town and didn't know Wichita. Then she engaged me in a conversation of a different sort...

Turns out she was a local prostitute, and, as I continued removing things from my trunk and taking them into my room for the night, she continued talking and the talk progressed into a rapid sales talk. She was trying to convince me to hire her for the evening. She told me I would 'sleep better tonight, and feel better tomorrow'. I told her I was not interested, adding that I was married and a Christian. She then went to on offer me 'Eskimo Love', but, I declined, and she drove on through the parking lot, looking for someone who might be interested in her offer. She never did explain what 'Eskimo Love' was....and I went to my room and spent the night by myself, happy to be returning to my sweet wife the next day.

Talking and laughing with the Bailey's over this event in my life that occurred when I went to Kansas to visit with Ben's parents many years ago led us off into talking about a number of other things...different towns where Ben and his parents had lived over the years. Wood Street church of Christ, for instance, where James and Marsha had worked with that congregation for a long time. I was the first person baptized in that little church, in 1954. I shared with Ben and Jaime about how one of our elders back then heard a sermon from a young man who was 'trying out' for a pulpit job there. The young man said something that may not have been totally correct (at least to that elders' point of view), and the elder, a brother Schiflett, (sort of a self-styled 'head elder'), stood up in the middle of the auditorium, right in the middle of the sermon and told the young man that he was wrong. Unnerved, the young man stammered and stuttered his way through the rest of his sermon and was interrupted and summarily 'dressed down' at least one more time for his 'errors'. I'd like to know if that young man remained in the ministry, or, having been publicly humiliated, he decided on a safer career. Anyway, we talked about a lot of things out in the street last night, and then said our goodbyes. I thought a lot about our visit with Ben and Jaime. I don't know Jaime's parents, but they must be as wonderful as James and Marsha had been and are to their kids....and they must be so very proud of how their kids have turned out. Such sweet people!

We had a really good visit, and felt like we had made a couple of new friends. Thanks, Neil and Joni, for sharing your house guests with us! Isn't it wonderful, when you can meet people you really have never had a conversation with, and through your connections in God's family, you quickly find commonality and a common appreciation of many of the same people you've met in your different walks in life? It's often impromptu, random times like these that I treasure. Paula and I feel that we know Ben and Jaime now, and they will never be strangers to us. It's wonderful, being a Christian. There are a lot of sweet moments here on earth. Can you even imagine how wonderful Heaven will be? Ben and Jaime, I hope that you two and your two sweet kids made it safely back to San Antonio today!

In 1956, I was 12, and enjoyed working in downtown Dallas with my Dad, who, at that time was a professional photographer. His office was on the 2nd floor of a building that housed the Melba Theater. It was located near Titche's Department Store. We could look out the windows and see all the traffic and people right out our window. I loved being near so much commotion. I also loved helping with the photographic process, helping Dad with his large porcelain pans of developer and fixative. I enjoyed working in the darkroom, and seeing images come to life in the red-light of the darkroom. I enjoyed making copies on dad's machine that was one of the forerunners of copy machines. I was just a kid, and of limited usefulness to Dad, but there were things that I could do to make his life a little easier. I often rode home from work in the evening on a city bus, and enjoyed all the sights and smells and all the people who rode the bus daily from downtown Dallas to Oak Cliff where we lived.

One day, I saw a huge black woman board the bus and, after dropping her change into the box by the bus driver, I saw her painfully make her way to the back of the bus, where black people were required to sit (or stand, if no seats were available at the back of the bus). I was sitting near the back of the bus, at the rear of the seating area where non-blacks were allowed to sit. The bus was full, and there were no available seats for this woman. I was only 12 years old, but I knew enough to know that blacks were treated differently than were whites...they could only drink from 'colored' drinking fountains in the department stores and other public buildings. They had to use restrooms that were for blacks only. They could not eat in restaurants frequented by whites. They had to go around to the back of restaurants and pay for and receive food via the back door, where all the trash cans and restaurant filth were to be found. I knew they were treated differently, and I had never known a black person in school or the neighborhoods where we lived. Yet, they seemed like anybody else to me.

I saw the woman, standing there, hanging on to the 'grab bars' overhead, and saw how miserable she was from pain. I then did what I had been taught all my life to do...I stood up and offered her my seat. She gratefully took my seat and I stood there in the aisle, holding on to the grab bar as the bus continued on toward Oak Cliff. A couple of white men cursed me for giving her my seat, and called me names that I won't repeat here. I would have been afraid, had I not been on a city bus.

The white bus driver noticed that I had given my seat to the black woman. He didn't say anything while he continued driving, but when I got near my destination, and walked to the front of the bus to exit at my bus stop, he quietly thanked me for my kindness. That made me feel good inside. I knew I had done the right thing, and now an older adult told me so.

Not long after this incident, while riding home on the bus another day, with the same bus driver driving us all home, I noticed another large black woman, at a bus stop in downtown Dallas, having trouble boarding, due to some physical problem. I was a little surprised, but happy, to see the bus driver put the bus in park, open the door and then leave the bus to help the old black woman board the bus.

The next day, I wrote a letter to the Dallas Transportation Authority, praising the kind bus driver. I knew his name, and I told them the route that he drove and described what he had done.

I received a response from his supervisor, who told me that this bus driver had been given a commendation and a raise, for what he had done.

I felt good about that, and realized that there are a lot of nice people in the world, who do the right thing when they have the opportunity. That made my heart sing! My heart still sings when I do something that I know is the right thing...even when it is often inconvenient or costly in some way. It delights me when I catch others doing 'the right thing'.

I've told stories before about my Mom, or my wife, or my kids ---doing the right thing. I'm grateful to Jesus, for His influence in our lives....for making us want to 'get out of ourselves' and do things for others. I believe that it's not so much our sitting in a pew at church that honors God, but rather, living for Him by doing for others....what we do, not just at a building on Sunday, but what we do and who we are 24/7/365. How about you?...what makes your heart sing?

The Unforgettable Raymond Kelcy

Raymond Kelcy was a wonderful man. He was the Chairman of the Bible Department at OC for many years. He was also the pulpit minister at the Wilshire Church of Christ in OKC where Paula and I were members. I loved too listen to Raymond, whether in one of his classes at OC when I was a student at OC, before most of you were born (Yes, I know I look very youthful, but I am, in fact, in my 60's :), in a Bible class at Wilshire, or in the auditorium at Wilshire. I learned a lot of wonderful things about the Scriptures and about God, from Raymond Kelcy. I also learned a lot about everyday life, again, from Raymond Kelcy. Dr. Kelcy -- Raymond -- was not puffed up and full of himself. He was down to earth -- normal -- practical -- and one of my heroes. Raymond had a great sense of humor. While he was not a big 'laugher', and did not walk around with a grin on his face, he had a dry wit, and always looked for the humor in life. Without cracking a smile on HIS face, he could convulse an audience with laughter with that slow, dry wit that was his trademark.

One of the things I liked about Raymond (and there were MANY), was his willingness to admit that he had been wrong or that he had, over time, changed his mind about his understanding of this or that. He was an humble man. No 'stuffed and puffed shirt' was Raymond Kelcy. He did not worry about people thinking less of him because of a shift in position about some thought or idea in Scripture. I admired Raymond for this, and for his intelligence and his humanity. Raymond let people know that he was not perfect, and he freely admitted his shortcomings. Raymond was an intellectual giant, and a man among men.

I videotaped Raymond, as he spoke at a going-away party for Kerry and Becky Holton, who had served for years at Wilshire. Kerry had become our pulpit minister at Wilshire, after Raymond had stepped down from that position but had continued his and Hester's fellowship with the Wilshire congregation. As it turns out, I have the only video of Raymond that exists -- anywhere! I have shared that video with OC, so that a ideo record of Raymond is not lost. I also gave a copy to Lynn McMillon and to Roger Kelcy (one of Raymond's sons) and Hester, Raymond's wife. In this video, Raymond told a humorous story that is THE funniest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. Raymond had a sense of timing only matched by the great Jack Benny or Bob Hope. I have watched it maybe twenty times, and each time, I hurt from laughing.

I think of Raymond often, and my life has been forever changed by having known him and from having listened to many hundreds of hours of sermons and classes at OC and at the Wilshire congregation. They say that one never dies, as long as one is remembered. If this is indeed true, then Raymond Kelcy will live forever in the hearts of men.

New China Restaurant, OKC, circa 1975

A long time ago, before most of you were born, I had hair, and wore leisure suits to work every day, selling insurance. I had an office in the little strip shopping center, just on the east side of OC, on Benson Road and Memorial. I officed with different people over the years...Bob Forrester and Bob Lashley, to name two. Bob was a home builder. I sold insurance, and for a brief stint, so did Lashley. Ah, those were the years. Men's ties were about a half-foot wide on the business end, and were often loud paisley things. Guys often wore (get this) WHITE belts with their leisure suits! Women's clothes were no better.

Bob Forrester and I got in the habit of going to a Chinese restaurant over in the Britton area every day for lunch. No exaggeration here. Seriously. EVERY workday for a year or more. We got acquainted with the wait-staff over time, and when we walked through the door, our little waitress motioned us to our 'usual' booth, along the west wall. Her name was Emily, but she pronounced it "Emory". She was a sweet young lady, and we tipped her well, so, unless she was off work, or ill, she was our waitress every day.

Over time, Bob and I settled in on our favorites from the limited menu. When "Emory" would seat us, we would tell her: "2 plus 2", and point to the two of us. Here's the breakdown on what "2 plus 2" meant, once deciphered: No.2 on the menu (beef chow mein), and 2 eggrolls-- each. We both got the same thing every time. The beef chow mein came with fried rice (Emily called it something that sounded much like "flied lice"...and Bob and I had to work through the mental picture THAT pronounciation brought to bear in our minds each day.

The perplexing thing about our ordering of such simple fare is that when we would look at "Emory" to place our order (to you Oklahomans, that is 'prace oul ol-del'). Emily would look at us, and wrinkle up her eyebrows at the "2 plus 2" and on the second part of that 2 plus 2 -- knowing that we were talking about the egg rolls -- she would ask: "2 pieces...or 2 ol-del?" (orders). We would tell her, very carefully---
"No, Emily, not 2 orders (4 eggrolls each), but ONE ORDER", to which she would reply:
"One piece?"....and on and on it would go, until the manager would intervene and tell Emily that we each wanted 2 eggrolls, not 2 orders each!

What is unbelievable is that this went on day after day, month after month, with no end. It was incredible!

In spite of her difficulty in understanding us, we tipped her well and she put up with our teasing and snickering. Bob and I have often wondered what became of our sweet little "Emory".

I had forgotten this story until I read my daughter's blog (Harmonious House -- check it out!), about the stuffing of her mailbox with a Chinese food menu from a local Chinese restaurant. Reading her story made me laugh -- a lot- and then the memories came flooding back. Thanks, Gena, for the memories!

Dad

A little bit of heaven

This afternoon I enjoyed a little bit of heaven. Erick and Gena, Raegan and Greyson came over for lunch after services at Memorial Rd. We had a good lunch and it was quieter than usual, since Greyson was asleep as he was carried into our home by his Dad. Erick put him in a dark, quiet room for a long nap. The rest of us had lunch and then Gena left for an afternoon engagement. Erick stayed for awhile, until Raegan told me (I'm known as 'Poppy') that she wanted to go to with me to her room to play. This was to be a private party for the two of us, and no one else was invited. I felt really special. We went into the room and she shut the door, so that her brother, when he awakened, would not interrupt our play time. We played with a plastic puzzle for awhile and then decided to get out the markers and draw. We invented some improbable-looking animals, such as the "OSTLE", which is a turtle/ostrich combo, and jazzed it up in a manner that would have made Dr. Seuss envious. We then invented the hump-backed, flying, feathered, plier-jawed alligator, and a few other honorable mentions. Raegan has a good imagination, and it was fun helping her see some of the combinations she'll never gaze upon in the zoo. We drew and colored and then practiced turning random squiggles into 'real' creatures or odd-looking humans.

At one point, Paula and Erick came into the room, with Greyson, after he had awakened from his nap. Raegan did not care for the interruption of our 'private time' playing together. I couldn't let her see it, but inside, I was just beaming that, for this little bit of time, I was her preferred playmate. It was a little bit of heaven, this wonderful Sunday afternoon, and I'll never forget it!

WHY IS IT?..AND THIS AND THAT

I wonder about a lot of things. Sometimes the things I wonder about are not really important matters, such as business or Eternity, but about things that don't necessarily matter. They're just observations about people and the things they do or say. This is one of those 'why is its'? For our discussion of 'Why is it' examples, here's a small one, just to break the ice: Why does it MATTER whether the little quotation mark ... ' ... comes BEFORE or AFTER the question mark?

Who was the decision-maker with that little mark? WHY DOES IT MATTER? After all, years ago, all our teachers were real sticklers about rules of grammar...using 'he' or 'she' in a sentence...and when one did not know which to refer to, we would use the cumbersome 'he or she' a dozen times in an article, letter or speech. Now we have thrown all that out the window and we don't use personal pronouns anymore as much as we used to...now we freely mix all kinds of pronouns and non-pronouns for ease in communication. The old rules of grammar are gone! Do what you want! Speechwriters and politicians and Hollywood stars -- even teachers in public schools and professors in universities -- the former bastions of correctness in the use of language -- have ripped the rudder from their ships of grammatical correctness and now ply the seas of written and spoken language, riding with the wind -- without even a nod of the head given to the Master of the ship or his helmsman, the Keeper of the Compass of Proper Communication.

I have a theory about this apparent abandonment of the once-sacred rules of grammar. It seems to me that 'proper' grammar went out the window about the time some people began wearing tennis shoes and flip flops to church (no, Gena, I won't make the mistake again of calling them 'thongs'....I've learned better). Also when people stopped eating an evening meal together at a dining room table, and began eating at the bar in the kitchen, or standing up by the kitchen sink. Or when guys started wearing earrings and when some men and women began 'coming out of the closet', as it were, with all the ridiculous pairings that followed. When the word 'gay' became anything BUT gay. When holding a door for a woman was often viewed as gratuitous and chauvinistic -- even sexist. When good manners were no longer de rigueur. When people began openly cursing in public and wearing clothing with really, really foul pictures and comments. A lot of our society seemed to sort of casual-down.

Many men stopped wearing coats and ties to "wait on the table" in church. Speaking of that -- take another look at the term 'waiting on the table' -- another archaic expression -- from the sound of it, like we're expecting the table to do or say something, so we patiently 'wait' on the table). Maybe a better expression would be: 'wait tables' at church. That might more accurately convey the activity. The men could accurately be referred to as waiters, or wait-staff, as they are called at restaurants. While we're shifting over to church-related ponderings: How about the ever-present "SHALL we pray"?...or "SHALL we BE standing?" instead of something a little more contemporary, such as, "let's pray"...or "let's stand". After all, how do you BE standing...is that sort of like "We BE goin' to town"? On the other hand, after thinking about that last thought, we don't want to say "Let's stand up", since that is redundant...sort of like saying "raise the window up". If you stand, of course it's 'up'...how else do you stand except by an upward movement? Also, who says 'shall' anymore? 'Shall' is coming, more and more, to sound like one of those 'church words.'

Another church word is 'brethren', a word in common usage since before the 12th century...plural form of the word brother, and used in formal or solemn address or used when referring to members of a society, profession or sect...maybe no longer a NOW kind of word. Who knows? Just a thought...The word brethren is used to mean the community of believers...men and women...and yet it is derived from the word 'brother'.. Should we, in a splurge of equality, refer to women as Sisteren or Sistren?...thereby giving women their own identity, instead of lumping them under a word with male origins? Of course, if we did that, then the very word, woMEN, needs an overhaul, since it carries an 'Eve from Adam' connotation. Just like the word 'mailman'.....'MAIL-PERSON' won't do. MAIL-CARRIER won't do...(there's that 'Male-sounding word' again)....I guess we could use LETTER-CARRIER. Or we could latch onto 'PERSON-PERSON'....That seems safe enough, for these very, very careful, delicate, politically correct days in which we live. We live in a time when people don't take chances with some things, such as political correctness, and then throw caution to the wind and take all kinds of chances with casual sex, drugs, and cheating on their taxes. Go figure.

Speaking of 'not taking chances', I want to share something with you you may find to be funny ------

I remember, as a child, living in the 1950's, when we would drive from Houston or Dallas up to Sherman, TX to see my grandmother Tennie. We would often sit outside her home in the evenings, since Tennie did not have air conditioning back then. It was hot in that house of hers. We would sit outside and listen to all the night sounds. Sometimes we would enjoy a Grapette soda or a Dr. Pepper. If it was early enough in the evening, we would often pile into Dad's car and head off to downtown Sherman where we would get an ice cream cone at Ashburn's (the best ice cream on earth!). We would get our ice cream cones and then get back into the car and sit there slowly enjoying our ice cream cones and watching the farmers and their wives, who had driven in off the farm to have an ice cream cone. The old farmers had on their overalls and the farm women (usually generously-sized women, in faded print dresses and those lace-up 'practical shoes') would stand in front of the counter, heads raised, looking carefully and with great deliberation at the huge array of flavors that were available. The men would stand there, often with their thumbs tucked into the straps of their overalls. The women would stand there, demurely with their hands together, maybe a little uncomfortable at being in the CITY, standing in front of so many CITY-FOLKS, reading the signs:..'Hawaiian Delight'...'Cherry Vanilla'...'Tutti-Fruitti... .and on and on. After pointing at the signs (there must have been 50 flavors), they almost invariably both selected Vanilla! After all, they must have been thinking, 'You just can't be too careful! Let's go with vanilla...it's a SURE THING.'.....why is it like that? We live in a time when most people will not put their thoughts down for the world to read and maybe enjoy. Most people will voyeuristically enjoy others' thoughts, but do not, for some reason, want to disclose THEIR thoughts. They will read someone elses' thoughts, and not ever comment on another person's ramblings-- maybe so they don't accidentally disclose something that would betray agreement, or dissention, interest or disinterest. You just can't be too careful! (Maybe I better just stick with Vanilla...it's safe).

EVERYONE HAS HIS (OR HER) STORIES TO TELL...(maybe, with the New Age Grammar, I should have said: EVERYONE HAS THEIR STORIES TO TELL)..stories of interest to many of the rest of us. You only go around once in this life. Open up! Don't be a VANILLA PERSON!...TRY THE HAWAIIAN DELIGHT OR THE TUUTTI-FRUITTI...try ALL of the flavors!

Take a chance! Share your thoughts with the rest of us!

Oh, the weighty matters that occupy our random thoughts. Gena, you're the Random Thoughts Girl...the master of the This And That.. why is it.?...that things ARE as they ARE? WHY IS IT?...

'Showers for guys!' It's time to even things up!

I think that the existing system in this country needs a change. We're hearing a lot about 'Change' lately...and precious little to show for it, except rhetoric. All we're going to be left with, as others have stated, is the 'change' in our pockets.

This is a different 'change' I'm talking about this time...the one I'm on a soapbox about tonight has to do with our custom of ladies having showers for women, when they are getting married. There are a couple of different types of these showers for women...personal showers, where gifts are purchased for the prospective bride by women, and only women attend the 'personal shower.' Then there is the other kind of shower, where personal gifts are not given, and the occasional male in attendance might be safe to attend. These are the can opener, blender kind of showers.

Men are excluded from the personal showers, however, and with good reason: the gifts are personal in nature, and while men love to see their brides wearing all of these 'dainty' gifts, they are, for the most part, clueless about them. I, for one, would rather eat a bucket of bugs than to be a guy in a roomful of women opening and 'ooh-ing' and 'ah-ing' and giggling and exchanging knowing looks over the many 'personal' gifts that are presented to the bride-to-be --not that I or any other guy would likely be invited to one of these showers. I believe that these events are so secretive that armed guards are likely posted at all the doors, and that electronic sweeps are made in the rooms where these showers take place, to ensure the privacy of the participants. You would think, from the exclusivity of these events, that women were going to be MODELING these 'dainty things' at the shower itself.

I don't object to women's personal showers. I just feel that there needs to be some sort of BALANCE in these matters. I think it's high time that GUYS also be on the receiving end of 'personal' showers. However, since guys don't have much in the way of 'personal clothing' (you can buy 3 pairs of skivs for about $8.00 -- whether you choose briefs or boxers. That about sums it up the 'personal wardrobe' for guys. So, just for fun, let's consider a REAL MAN'S SHOWER, and what it COULD BE. Until now there were BRIDAL SHOWERS AND BABY SHOWERS. That's about it. NOW, HOWEVER, WE WILL CONSIDER A NEW KIND OF SHOWER: THE 'GROOMAL' SHOWER....for the PROSPECTIVE GROOM, OR AS (or, as we will use it here) the 'PG'.

Imagine this: the best man calls the prospective groom's friends, his high school and college friends, all the people who ever knew his parents or siblings -- even though none of these people have been contacted by the prospective groom in many years, and he invites them to a shower for the prospective groom. Notice of the event will have been published in the church bulletin and word of the event spread over the Internet. If the PG has lived for a long time in different cities, this event will likely be duplicated several times, in different places. The prospective groom, or PG, will haul in an incredible amount of swag!

Here's my idea about the shower: The PG could be registered at Home Depot, Lowe's, Ace Hardware, Bass Pro Shop, and maybe Auto Zone. That ought to just about cover it. Then, at the shower for the PG, the guests, who would bring their gifts in a grocery sack, or, plastic produce bag--- or,eschewing wrappers of any kind, would then hand their gifts to the PG, one at a time, and all the guys would high-five each other and quaff another big gulp of their Barg's Root Beer or other appropriate beverage, down another handful of popcorn, mixed nuts or a slab of Hot-N-Ready pizza. All of this with a generous sprinkling of 'ALL RIGHT', 'COOL, DUDE', "LOOK AT THAT!" or the incredulous, 'ARE YOU KIDDING ME?'

A few of the guests -- those with great verbal skills or, by force of personality and enthusiasm, will, in all likelihood, utter phrases like: "MAN!...THAT SAW IS ONE MEAN CUTTING MACHINE! "They might shout out: "IT'S A DEWALT!!!....or, "UNBELIEVABLE! Or, you might hear: "WOW!!! ALONG WITH THE AMMO, HE GOT A YEAR'S MEMBERSHIP AT H&H GUN RANGE!" Each of the guests would look admiringly at the generosity of the other guests, and would nod, smile, or shout atta-boys at the generosity of the other guests and their understanding of the PG's interests, hobbies and personal needs.

The Prospective Groom, or PG, would, reverently and with great appreciation, slowly remove each gift from its brown grocery bag, plastic produce bag, or straight-from-the-factory box and, with agonizing slowness and superhuman deliberation, examine each cordless drill, Gerber knife, ladder, socket wrench, set of jumper cables, box of spark plugs, gun-cleaning kit and other timeless gifts.

Good friends, stationed on each side of the PG, will either hand him the next gift, or, carefully deal with the brown bags and produce sacks and cardboard. With great humility and thankfulness, the PG will thank each of his buddies with vigorous handshakes and back-slapping guy-hugs, further bonding with his buddies and guests. This kind of male-bonding is similar to what occurs at ballgames (or around a t.v. set where ballgames are being watched) or on the battlefield in a foreign country.

Some of the guests -- those who don't fall into the 'top echelon' of the buddy-category of the PG (the 'A-List, if you will), but who also are present, with their 'group purchases', that they bought along with others who are also not 'upper echelon' buddies of the PG -- also laugh, back-slap, high-five each other like those in the inner group of the guests ---the close buddies of the PG...just not quite as loudly, and with not quite as much raucous enthusiasm. These friends are 2nd and
3rd tier friends, representing the the 'not so much buddies' category -- who, never having been close friends with the PG, contributed with others who also did not know the PG really well, but who have good and generous hearts and also wanted to be present at the shower and to participate in the gift-giving, to encourage the prospective groom, and so he could start his new marriage with all the stuff it takes to set up a new garage in style and be a proper husband for his bride. He would want for no hardware, fishing and hunting stuff, and yard tools in HIS new home!

I know that all of this may seem a little radical, but think about this: in this day of 'equal rights', the equality doesn't have to be lopsided anymore. Guys can now be equal to women! Guys can participate in one of the time-honored events that women have enjoyed for millenia --- 'SOAKING their friends!' ....After all, isn't this where the event acquired the name 'SHOWER?' :)

Try Giving It The Old Shoemake 'Whomp'

There are demons lurking inside things we mistakenly call 'inanimate objects.' Inanimate indeed! They ACT inanimate and they LOOK inanimate, but it's all a pretense. There is a conspiracy among objects to do us in....to exhaust our patience, drain us of our meager financial resources...cause us to lose our tempers and self-control....and, yes, even to one day deprive us of our 'Eternal Reward.' Like Glenn Beck says: 'Here's how I got there'....

Time will not permit me to regurgitate all of the thousands of times I have been waylaid by 'inanimate objects.' As you read this, you will, without a doubt, instantly be transported to the recesses of your minds, where you will also recall battles you have had with inanimate objects, hereafter referred to as IO's.

Last week, I was working in my office with Susan, my little Korean secretary. (She says that she is only a file clerk, but we call her a secretary...it sounds neater and is more impressive...makes her look better and me too, since it sort of pumps up my sense of self-importance!). She was working on the laptop, scanning documents and I was on this desktop, doing 'boss' stuff (I hate that word, so I use it here in jest). The tower was making funny sounds. I tried all the civilized ways of getting it to stop making those irritating noises. I turned the unit off and on a few times. I unplugged an external mass storage device, and a handful of other things -- memory sticks, and two printers. Nothing. The irritating sounds continued. Finally, I told Susan to not be alarmed. I leaned over and smacked the side of the tower -- pretty hard, but not hard enough to cave in the side of the tower. The sound stopped. The computer kept running (whew!).

The tower had to be shown who was in charge! It will likely be months before it's petulance shows up again and it has to be put in its place once more.

Recently, one of the copier/printers in my office started acting up. I was a little surprised, since it knows it can be replaced! There are two other identical copier/printers in the office, and a larger Xerox laser printer for bigger jobs. The little printer got a little too big for its britches. Susan has been scanning documents for a half-year, turning my office into a 'paperless' office. We were just about finished with that particular project, when, out of nowhere, her printer began making sounds like a galloping horse, of all things! I know precisely where it picked up that idea --- it got the idea from listening to my little grandson, Greyson, running up and down the hall next to my office, with his stick horse and its realistic head of a horse and an electronic device that sounds like a big horse galloping down the old dusty trail. Greyson's 'horse' then stops and rares up (that's 'country' for REARS UP...and it also sounds a little nicer), and gives a huge double-whinny!....shades of the old Lone Ranger series!

THAT'S where the sound in the copier/printer came from! Copier/printers have no imagination. They are, after all, produced by a nation of people who can 'copy' things but are incapable of inventing anything new. So---- the copier/printer just listened and then began mimicking the horse-galloping sound, to our extreme displeasure! What a smart-alec IO!

Finally, having had enough of the 'attitude' of the copier/printer, I strode across the room and slapped the fire out of it. The irritating sound stopped immediately.
Susan didn't look at me with fear and trepidation...she's used to it by now.

The LAST of the recent electronic provocations was put into play by my AT&T cell phone. It is called 'The Ultimate'....a name that has given rise to many, many other names....The Ultimate Irritation!...The Ultimate Demon!...The...oh, well, you get the idea. It's the 'ULTIMATE', all right! It began giving me fits, dropping one call after another about two weeks ago. I called AT&T. They pleaded ignorant to any system problem, so, after hanging up, I turned my wrath on the phone. It dropped on more call...maybe the tenth call in thirty minutes. I held it up high and slammed it down on my desk...hard enough to get its attention, but not hard enough to break it. It worked! The dropped calls stopped! Like my Dad and John Wayne (one and the same person, in my view) used to say: 'Sometimes you have to talk to people in a language they understand!' I LIKED THAT SAYING! STILL DO! It also applies to IO's. Sometimes you have to 'talk to an IO in a language IT understands!' (WHOMP!!).

I share these stories with you, not to demonstrate the unlimited nature of my insanity and wrath, but to show you that you can get the upper hand with YOUR own
so-called IO's. I invite you to start your own list: Start with the easy ones: 'buttered bread that always falls buttered side down, right on your carpet', or, 'three squares of toilet tissue makes your toilet overflow', to 'locking your keys in your car'....or, my personal favorite: 'the cell phone that goes off during a prayer or at a funeral.' These are the common ones: these particular inanimate objects are like realtors and union bosses. They are ORGANIZED -- and they'll get you every time! They've got their business down to a science...and everything is controlled...and you are at their mercy. If you are like I am, and I suspect that you are, you can think of thousands of these instances, when seemingly 'inanimate objects' did you in, and made your life, for a little while, absolutely miserable!

I want you to try taking hold of your destinies! Fight back! Don't be tempted any longer to defuse your anger and frustration, and chide yourself for being put out by what's happened. Get even! You will see that objects that surround you become much more orderly, less irritating, and less hostile! You can show them who is boss! You will find that YOU, TOO CAN BE THE MASTER OF YOUR HOME AND OFFICE. YOU CAN BE RESPECTED BY THE THINGS THAT LIVE IN YOUR ENVIRONMENT. Give it a try--- when the IO's get out of line, whip them into shape....GIVE THEM THE OLD 'SHOEMAKE WHOMP!'

We were in a pickle!

The year was about 1976.  Paula and I had been married for about four years, and had been living in a new home we had built for only about a year.  I had been out of town on business, and, driving down our street, I noticed a green liquid running in the street next to the curb.  I drove into our driveway and saw that the green liquid was coming from under our garage door!  Getting out of my car, I further saw that the green liquid looked like a green slush, and that it smelled...like dill pickles!  I opened the garage door and followed the trail into the hot-water heater closet in the garage.  Erupting from the drain next to the hot water heater was a fountain of green slush!  It was running out of our garage, down the driveway and down the street.  What in the world could be going on in our house???

I opened the door from the garage to the laundry room and walked into the kitchen, where I saw Paula, standing there, singing and plopping 'reject' pickles into the garbage disposal, one at a time, with the water running.  There were empty pickle jars all over the kitchen.  She was just about finished with the pickle demolition, and she shut the water off.  The house reeked of dill pickles! I asked her, as calmly as I could, what she was doing, and she happily told me that the batch of pickles had not turned out as she had hoped, and she was putting them down the drain. 

The pickles, although ground into a mush by the garbage disposal, overloaded the disposal and clogged the drain.  It seems that the drains in the average home are not adequate for the flushing of 45 to 50 quarts of dill pickles -- even if they are now mush!

We spent the evening cleaning pickle mush out of the heater closet and garage and then hosed down the driveway and tried our best to flush the pickle mush in the street WAY DOWN the street.  We sort of accomplished our goal, but, needless to say, the pickle mush gave our street a certain distinctive smell for a few days.We called the plumber and when he saw what had happened, told us in no uncertain words that he had never seen anything like this in all his years as a plumber.  He worked for a long time, cleaning out our drains. I 'relished' the thought of the cost of the plumbing work.

We got over the pickling of our home and neighborhood, and eventually, our neighbors forgave us.  The jokes, at Paula's expense, however, lingered for years. Even now, she's occasionally referred to as a DILL-lightfully nice lady!  Paula is a good cook, and knows her way around a kitchen really well. She has not ever attempted to whip up a batch of pickles again. Nevertheless she is good with 'pickles'...of the situational variety. In the years since the dill pickle fiasco, I must confess that my lovely wife has gotten ME out of a few 'pickles.' She's a great wife!...my little 'baby dill.'

'Nuff said!

Crotch-Sniffin' Dogs! ---LOOKOUT!

Okay, I'm getting even now! For years, as I have been welcomed into the homes of people who were inquiring about getting a new roof, I have been also welcomed by their 150 lb. dogs, who also welcomed me, as I tried to squeeze past Henrietta Homemaker and 'Bruiser'. Henrietta (my generic name for all the sweet little homemakers out there in the wide, wide world, who are left with the decision-making regarding roofing matters) holds the door open for me as I wipe my feet on her doormat and then try to step across the threshold to enter her home. As I'm trying to pass by Henrietta, her Doberman, Collie, St. Bernard, or other half-horse dog, is always trying to bury his/her 10" long snout into the crotch of my jeans, from the front, or, even more unnervingly, from the rear... often unexpectedly!

It's an awkward moment, as I'm greeting Henrietta, while trying to get past her without brushing up against her clothing or her assets, while simultaneously avoiding her proctologist/genitalia-ologist canine pervert posing as a harmless cute little dog.

Homeowners rarely stop this kind of behavior, and, I suspect, they find it amusing, since their dog/s long ago became bored with the sniffing of THEIR britches!

In the past, when I've gotten a heads-up about the dogs in one of the 'Henrietta' households I've planned on entering, I have gone to great lengths to short-circuit the dog's unwanted attention by spraying hair spray on the seat of my jeans and sprinkling cayenne pepper on the wet hair spray, thinking that even if a little of the pepper remained long enough for me to get inside Henrietta's home, the devil-dogs would leave me alone. The results were mixed. I won't elaborate on this part of the story. Nor will I elaborate on the results from my having tried --- years ago, to thwart Fido's crotch fascination with a dash of liquid cinnamon oil. As you might suspect, the cinnamon oil penetrated my clothing and lit me up like a Christmas tree when the oil reached my....'delicate parts.' I ended up doing the 'Cinnamon Shuffle', while driving home, hair on fire, as they say (and pants on fire as well), ripping my clothes off and showering with lots and lots of soap, for a very, very long time, trying to get the cinnamon oil off of my skin.

Last week, Jeff and I were in the Mulholland Addition in N. Edmond, meeting an out-of-state insurance adjuster, on behalf of some nice homeowners, who wanted us to meet with the adjuster in the hope that they could achieve equity on their storm damage claim. As we followed the adjuster toward the gate, leading into the backyard of this huge home, the adjuster, seeing two large dogs on the other side of the fence, opened the gate and just walked into the backyard. Jeff and I did NOT follow immediately. We both waited to see if the dogs would devour the adjuster, who paid them no mind. The dogs did not attack him. I was puzzled. Unless this adjuster was the 'Dog Whisperer' -- in person-- I could not imagine why he would have entered the backyard without so much as an attempt to size up the dogs, to try to test their demeanor before striding into the backyard like Daniel, strolling into the lion's den! I then followed the adjuster through the gate, followed by Jeff. I asked the adjuster: "How did you know the dogs wouldn't attack you?" He said, in an off-hand way: "Oh, I had my hand on my 'Dazer', and if they have started toward me, I would have just touched it lightly with one finger of my left hand."

A 'Dazer', we wondered? What is a 'Dazer?' I asked the adjuster what he was talking about. He showed us a device, on his left side, on his belt. It looked like a long, thin garage door opener. He said: "Watch this." He touched the button lightly -- just once. At once, the dogs lowered their ears and their tails, and took off for the far side of the yard. They didn't approached us again during the time we walked all over the backyard.

Needless to say, I immediately bought three of the Dazers. After a wait of about a week, they arrived the other day. I gave one to Jeff, and one to Paula. I kept one for myself. Jeff and I will use them to prevent our becoming 'Kibbles & Bits', or 'Bacon, Bacon, BACON!' for the next Cujo we encounter. I have decided to buy one for each of my salesmen, so that they, too, can walk without fear, through the backyards of Edmond and OKC. We'll be fearless, and homeowners all across the land will admire our courage! (You reckon?).

In the future, when my neighbors allow their 'Yipper' to sit on the other side of our back fence for hours, angrily yipping at us, destroying any quiet time we had hoped to enjoy in our own back yard, planting flowers, we will employ our 'Dazer' and send him/her packing. The device has a range of about 50 feet, and is very effective. When employed, dogs not only run away, but they shut their traps as well!

(Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus!).

I will wear this discreet little device on MY left hip, and will feel empowered, almost like I am carrying a concealed weapon. I may go out of my way to seek out encounters with fearsome beasts of prey. The device won't hurt animals, but it WILL deter bad manners. I will henceforth feel like a 'Backyard John Wayne'...fearless, brave, rugged, determined! Yes, with the Dazer, my life will change!

As for homeowners who allow such behavior when guests enter their homes, I have daydreamed about another daydream possibility: Carrying a tiny syringe of diluted bacon drippings with me, and as I follow 'Henrietta' to her dining room table, I covertly spray a tiny amount of the diluted bacon drippings on the back of HER jeans, and then, as I'm sitting at the dining room table, talking about roofing matters, I watch her twist and squirm as her dog tries to give HER a procto-exam!

I wonder how funny that would be to her? If my ownership of the Dazer keeps shoring up my courage, I may do it! At any rate, in the future, whenever I need to visit, unmolested, with a homeowner, it's nice to know that all it will take, to get some quiet time with the homeowner, is a subtle touch of the old Dazer. The dogs will disappear, as if shot out of a cannon, and I'll be able to get down to business!

Captain Kirk has his Phaser...the police have their Tasers....and now the Shoemake's have their Dazers! Life is sweet! Bring on your bulldogs -- I'm ready!

Fast-Food Restrooms & Buckets of 'Bugs'

Yesterday I was desperate. No time to eat lunch, and no choice of restaurants, but really hungry. I walked into a local fast-food place on the north side of Edmond (you would know it --they have locations everywhere in the known world). ("100 Billion Served?" How about 100 Billion potentially infected?). Not wanting to be sued, I will not mention their name. It makes no difference. MOST fast-food places are just like it. I would rather eat a bucket of bugs than go into one. Here's how I got there! I wanted to wash my hands before eating, so I did just that. Then I noticed, while standing there with water dripping from my hands, that they only had wall-mounted electric hand-drying devices. I did the best I could with the 'electric paper towels' and then walked toward the door. The idiots who designed the bathroom doors in this public restroom designed it so one has to grab a door-handle to pull the door open....with no paper towels. This includes the employees who make up your food order. They, too --- being in a hurry, and with no one watching, did 'their business' and walked out of the restroom, having just opened the door by grabbing the filthy, WET door handle, and went right back to making up your food order. The only stop on the way, is likely their fast use of a broom and dust pan or mop to clean up the floor of the restaurant -- before heading behind the counter to bag up your order...likely without bothering to wash their hands! Now, back to the rest room...better known as the 'germ dispenser'.

You have to touch the handle with your bare hands. In doing so, you might as well be sticking your hands into the pants of the last 10,000 people who visited that bathroom! It's worth noting that the majority of people who use public bathrooms NEVER wash their hands after handling various parts of their anatomy while attending to their private bathroom needs...unless you are standing at a urinal (if you're a guy) and they know you're watching. So, when you walk up to the food counter to order your food, and some person asks you "you want fries with that?", they are, of course, asking you if you'd like fries with the filth you picked up on the wet door handle in the john! 10,000,000,000,000 (Obama bail-out numbers!!) filthy germs you just picked up in their germ-infested bathroom with the antibiotic-resistant germs running amuck all over the door handle that you have to grab to get out of the death trap they call a 'rest room'. 'Rest Room', indeed! A better name for this sort of public 'facilities' would be: 'LAST STOP ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL'....! (Can you spell 'E-COLI'?...or 'antibiotic-resistant staph?'...or MERSA?).

I can't undo the design of brain-dead architects, fast-food franchise owners, and other establishments with uneducated, archaic, insensitive ways of looking at public health. But I CAN deal with it in MY WAY. My way is to first -- before walking into the fast-food restroom, go to the napkin dispensers and walk away with a big wad of paper napkins. I tuck them into my shirt pocket and then, after washing my hands and drying them with paper, I then walk over to the door handle, and with dry paper napkins, open the door safely! If there is a trash can near the door, I toss the paper napkins into the receptacle.

IF THERE IS NO TRASHCAN NEAR THE DOOR, I TOSS THE PAPER NAPKINS ON THE FLOOR, RIGHT NEXT TO THE DOOR. OTHERS MUST BE THINKING THE SAME THING, BECAUSE I OFTEN SEE PILES OF PAPER ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO THE DOOR OF THE BATHROOM. When the establishment begins paying for enormous quantities of paper napkins, they may decide to fix the door, so that one can open the door with one's elbow or the push of a foot near the bottom of the door.

By now you think I'm a nut case. That's okay. I understand. But wait--here's another one for you to think about. I was in another popular 'restaurant' the other day, near Bryant and Memorial Rd. It was late in the evening and the restaurant was not crowded. A man -- probably in his 50's with black hair was mopping the floor. His hair was as black as coal, but...only his hairdresser knows for sure about the hair color. He was mopping the floor, with no apparent enthusiasm. Every now and then he would stop and walk behind the counter. After all, three or four swats across a little piece of the floor with that fetid mop would wear ANYONE out. With no washing of his hands, he picked up a tiny spoon from a containe of micro-spoons used for people to 'taste' different flavors of ice cream before making their selection. He then reached down into one of the containers of ice cream and scooped out some ice cream and deposited the wad of ice cream into his mouth. He then went back to mopping. He did this three times while I was eating my meal. "That's great, I thought -- just great!" No one paid him any mind. It didn't matter that the workers preparing the food at the grill wore plastic gloves, as though they were doing a surgical procedure. THIS GUY DIDN'T -- and his filthy hands -- from mopping up the restaurant (handling the bucket, the mop, the litter on the floor, etc.), kept reaching right down into the ice cream buckets--a different one each time...wielding tiny plastic spoons. Each selection of ice cream was done with great deliberation and no apparent haste. I'm SURE his hands NEVER TOUCHED the ice cream...aren't you? I'm just almost --nearly-- certainly positive!..........maybe. Yeah---RIGHT! (Try mentally going into a big container of hard ice cream with a tiny, flexible plastic spoon that might be an inch and a half long and try to scoop ice cream with your plastic spoon without dragging your knuckles all over the ice cream in the bucket -- it's impossible!). It also did not go unnoticed that the large lady behind the counter kept hacking rattling, phlegmy coughs into her left hand, over and over, while she prepared some wonderful milk shakes and a 'mix' for some lucky, unsuspecting patron at the drive-up window, who drove away, blissfully ignorant of what had just happened. (I wonder who was her beneficiary on her life insurance policy?) "YUMMY! Where do I sign up for some of that?", I thought, as I did a quick but thorough optical scan of the remainder of my hamburger. At this point, I'm super-vigilant, and looking over my nub of a hamburger with x-ray vision, imagining all sort of possible scenarios involving the preparation of MY hamburger. I almost didn't eat the last bite.

Want to live to a ripe old age? Want your kids to stay a little healthier, and have an even chance of growing up? Then be careful where you eat. Check out the bathroom first. If you have to grab the handle to get out of the bathroom, don't eat there! You may end up paying with more than money for the privilege of dining there. You may even pay with more than 'intestinal distress'....you may pick up something along the way that will change your life in ways you don't want. These days, it may take more than Pepto Bismol to ease your intestinal discomfort if you fall victim to the Fast Food Germ Slingers --- the Dirty Harry's of Dining.

O.K.--- now you've branded me as a lunatic. That's okay. I don't mind. I feel that it is important to highlight a public danger. We live in a world where people are dying every day from 'community acquired diseases.' Antibiotics are losing the war against some of the formerly fairly benign 'bugs' that are found on every surface in the world. Peoples' incomes and lives are affected by sickness. Medical costs are skyrocketing. And, with alll of this going on in our world, idiots are still building public facilities with bathroom doors that have to be opened by hand by people who, in large part, do not wash their hands. They do things with their hands that have consequences for other people.

I'm happy, knowing that I will not be as likely to pick up a case of the 'Tennessee Quick-Step' or end up in the hospital, with a case of antibiotic-resistant staph. This resistant little bug killed my sister in Dallas a few years ago when she went into the hospital for a pretty minor surgery, as surgeries go. She got the staph infection at the site of her surgery. Her name was Nancy Kocher. She never left the hospital alive.

We can't kill all the germs in the world, but doesn't it make sense to protect people in public places with just a little common sense? Especially in public restaurants, where there is such a huge risk to the public. Do your family a favor...look at bathrooms in public eating establishments and how they are constructed and serviced. Also, watch to see if the food handlers are also wielding mops and cleaning tables and handling money and then go right back to food preparation without washing their hands with soap and water.

For my part, I would rather eat a bucket of bugs than eat at a fast-food restaurant!

Medical Alert! The dreaded TG

Years ago, while enjoying a lunch at Hack's Cafeteria in Bryant Square in Edmond, with my best friend (then and now)-- Phil Johnson, we discussed, as we often did when we enjoyed our frequent lunches together, subjects of profound importance. We have been best friends since about 1969, when we met at OCC. Phil and I know everything about each other, and this kind of close friendship allows people to say pretty much anything that is on ones' mind, without fear of condemnation or a feeling of vulnerability. We knew so much about each other, that we joked about being 'friends of necessity'. We each knew enough to hang the other if the friendship turned sour! Sort of like the U.S.A and Russia and the doctrine of 'mutually assured destruction'....you get the picture. Anyway, the freedom of discussion allowed for some really fun conversations. One day at Hack's Cafeteria, I confided in Phil. I told him of my research into what I called 'Audience Phenomena.'

I told Phil about something that I had observed in people during boring lectures during college and, while growing up, in small towns in Texas, where the preachers were not gifted like Mark Taylor, Kent Allen and Ronnie White and others with similar exceptional speaking skills. I had observed and made copious notes when observing people who were listening to boring, monotonous speakers. The speakers on the OCC campus were usually the worst, since they were often men or women who had achieved some success (usually associated with making money -- I thought that's why they were invited to speak on campus). Often they had poor communication skills, and it was the danger posed by the lack of speaking skills, combined with verbosity, that made me decide to publish my findings, in the hope that lives might be saved.

I observed and then categorized, by degrees or 'benchmarks' -- characteristics I often observed in audiences, that, when allowed to progress without interruption, posed grave consequences for innocent people in audiences everywhere. Here are my findings:

1. When the speakers began their prepared or sometimes unprepared comments, the audiences were usually a lively bunch. This is the 'normal human condition'...our baseline, or standard, if you will.

2. When the introductory remarks were concluded, and the speaker got down to 'brass tacks', and when the audiences saw that the speaker was not going to be a humorous speaker, the glances from left to right and over peoples' shoulders commenced immediately, followed by yawns and glances at wristwatches or the clocks on the walls.

3. Before long, when it became apparent that the speaker was going to give a real stemwinder of a talk, speech or lecture, and that escape from the auditorium was impossible, squirming would start, sometimes accompanied by head-scratching, sighs or looks of resignation. The phenomenon of 'foot jiggling' often was evident. Not the slow movement of feet one sees when people cross their legs and move their feet slowly, but the nervous, spastic movements ---the rapid, jerking of the feet that usually signals a near-frantic state of mind.

4. As the speaking continued and the perceived room temperature increased, one would often see the early stages of 'stupor' setting in among the 'audience captives'. Eyelids would begin to sag, sometimes followed by an involuntary forward nodding of the head or the equally involuntary backwards tilting of the victim's head. The forward slump of the head was usually stopped by the victim's chest, while the backwards tilting of the head was almost always stopped by the back of the seat. A high percentage of victims would slide down further into the seat, in a relaxed sprawl. Often, one would also see the lips part, as the progression of the stupor increased. This marks the condition identified medically known as 'THE GLAZE' (after our observations were published and verified by countless other redundant studies that followed my initial research).

5. The Glaze, once it has gained control of the victim, rapidly progresses to what is now known as the 'PTG'....the PRE-TERMINAL GLAZE. In this phase of the condition, the victim's mouth begins to gape open widely, and is often accompanied by drooling. The victim's eyes are now clouded over markedly, and it is not uncommon for the victim to jerk suddenly --- hands, legs and feet making random quick motions without apparent direction. In advanced stages of PTG, the victim may utter monosyllabic sounds, or make loud smacking noises. The marked relaxation of the victim, now semi-comatose, is often characterized by loud intestinal groans and gurglings, and these sometimes prompt more involuntary movement of arms, hands and legs as the unconscious victim seeks a more comfortable bodily posture. In this phase of the condition, the victim is almost beyond resuscitation, and, if the speech continues much longer, the audience members will often glance at the victim with understanding mixed with sorrow, for the vital, formerly exuberant person they once knew has slipped toward the brink of eternity-- the cusp of the great abyss -- by the monotonous, unrelenting auditory barrage of the clueless speaker.

5. Finally, we reach the stage of the condition we mention with great sadness, and more than a little fear ---the dreaded TG....known to doctors and scientists as the TERMINAL GLAZE. In the finality of this condition, all breathing stops, along with the drooling and the occasional fluttering movement of the eyelids. All vital signs have now ceased, and there appears a cyanotic bluish tinting of the lips and fingertips. The eyelids are now either closed, or, as in cases of extreme suffering during the PTG's, the eyelids are locked open---a hideous rictus smile denoting an end-point to the suffering of the victim.

It is my hope that with the publicizing of the symptoms of this devastating condition, that public speakers may eventually give more thought to their comments, use of humor, inflection, gestures, modulation of voice --- and other devices known to great speakers like Mark Taylor, Kent Allen and Ronnie White -- and spare untold numbers of captive audience members unnecessary suffering and a needless premature end to their existence here on earth.

Conflicted!

I'm so sorry for the losses of so many people whose homes and businesses have been damaged by the storm Tuesday night. I really am.....

Why then do I feel like an undertaker at a high-dollar funeral?...sorry for the death of the nice person being honored, yet, happy that I was the 'funeral home of choice' for the family of the deceased?

That's the 'conflict' we feel as roofers after a combo tornado/hail storm. I guess a lot of other people are conflicted as well....doctors, lawyers, preachers, auto body shops and others.

Nevertheless, I'm going to try to be a little bit more somber when I am asked to re-roof a home or business...I will try to wear my best "behave yourself--wipe that grin off of your face -- you don't go to a funeral to have a good time!" facade. Those were words that my Mom and Dad used to say to my brother and to me when we were kids. The problem was this: after being told not to grin, for a long time after these stern admonitions, whenever we would be told not to grin -- for the life of me I couldn't keep from grinning ---and neither could George. If we so much as glanced at each other, we would both get tickled, and either snicker or snort. You KNOW what happened next! We would get marched out of the auditorium or funeral chapel and be on the receiving end of some well-aimed swats. Gradually we lost our compulsion for grinning when told NOT to grin! We would have little 'talks with ourselves' on the way to the funeral services...the people who had died were not friends of ours -- they were often people we did not even know. How can one expect a little kid to be somber and sad at the passing of a stranger -- especially when one who is young does not really even comprehend death? I think it's asking a lot out of a kid.

Maybe that's where that phrase came from -- "fake it till you make it!"

Lionized, at the Dallas zoo!

My dad's Mom was a pretty stern woman. She was capable of having fun, but most of the time, seemed pretty serious to me. My Dad never told too many 'funny' stories about his Mom (who didn't want to be called 'Granny', 'Grams', or any of the other endearing old-sounding names that most grandmothers settle into). No, she insisted that we call her by her first name...Tennie. Her full name, in all its glory was: Tennie Hortense (Childress) Shoemake, until late in life when she remarried when my grand dad died and her last name became Houston. She and her husband, Eugene, and her twin boys, Jack (my dad) and Gene (for whom I am named), lived in Sherman, Texas.

The story as related to me, went like this: One nice winter day, my grand dad took Tennie and my dad to the zoo. Dad's twin brother had died, when he was two years old, so my Dad was an only child. Tennie was sporting a new fur coat, of which she was very proud. They strolled along the paths, in front of the cages. Back in those days, the animals were not sealed away from humans with walls of glass AND massive bars and moats. The animals were behind bars, and people with common sense stayed on the paths and didn't get up in the face of the animals -- within reach of massive arms and teeth. Most people back then had a brain in their heads, unlike some people today who want to climb into the animals' homes and 'bond' with the wild beasts!

Anyway, Tennie and her husband, Eugene, and Jack were strolling along, enjoying their outing when they paused in front of the lion's cage. As they stood there, something like 'coat envy' must have been aroused in the male lion nearest the path where Dad and his parents were standing. Suddenly, the lion turned his back to them, raised his tail and shot a stream of the most foul-smelling urine directly onto Tennie and her brand new coat! That event ended the trip to the zoo on, shall we say, a 'sour note'...and the Shoemake family hurriedly exited the zoo and returned home, smelling, all the way home, from Dallas to Sherman, Texas -- an hour and a half away -- like a zillion, fermented, urine-soaked cat boxes on a hot day in August!!

Arriving home, my grand dad, now in a decidedly somber, funereal mood, took the expensive fur coat out behind their home, and reluctantly, almost ceremoniously, holding the fur coat out on the end of a stick, deposited it in a large steel drum, normally used for burning their garbage. He doused the fur coat with coal-oil and threw in a match. He then moved away -- and upwind -- from the barrel with uncharacteristic speed. The smell of the burning urine-soaked fur coat ran a few neighbors out of their homes. They all asked about the whereabouts of dear Tennie, who was inside their home, scrubbing her skin in a tub of hot water, in an attempt to cleanse her body of the foul-smelling lion urine.

This event at the zoo may have been the catalyst that caused her to become a compulsive user of bleach. I remember Tennie bleaching dishes, even silverware (causing them to turn black from the action of the bleach). EVERYTHING in her home got bleached...EVERYTHING...even the concrete steps on her front and back porch. The bleach didn't hurt her, though -- she lived to be 102. That was one clean woman.

It is said that Tennie never again wore a fur coat...or visited a zoo...after being 'lionized' at the Dallas zoo on a brisk winter day!

It made no scents...no scents at all!

One hot summer night in Dallas, my brother George and I got into a bunch of trouble. I was 16, George was 14, and we were out, after dinner, looking for a little trouble to get into. We walked east, about two blocks, with no particular destination in mind, enjoying the night air, the loud crickets and tree frogs. We had enjoyed a nice meal at home, but, in those days, Mom and Dad didn't have central air conditioning in their home. We had a 'swamp cooler' and a couple of window air conditioning units. We preferred being outdoors in the evenings, until bedtime, and often would run into friends and spend time with them.

As we walked east on Circle Drive, we noticed a street light up ahead, and what appeared to be a small dog, under the street light, eating the June bugs that had been attracted to the light. As we got closer, however, we realized that this was no dog -- it was a SKUNK! We had never been this close to a skunk, and, knowing how 'ripe' skunks can be, when aroused, we couldn't resist the temptation to stir up a little trouble.

We hurried over to the flowerbed of one of our neighbors, and picked up a number of dirt clods, which we began 'winging' at the skunk. We were lousy shots, and a number of our earthen missiles missed our intended target. The skunk, however, was becoming agitated, and did a little dance, and sort of stomped his feet as he pivoted around and around. One dirt clod, however, nailed the skunk and the skunk responded with...well, you know what he responded with! The skunk turned away from us, raised his tail, and let fly! Out of range, and laughing, we continued throwing clods of dirt, and the poor skunk appeared to continue his 'olfactory retaliatiion!' Finally, we noticed the smell! It was unbelievably strong! That smell was also beginning to be 'noticed' by homeowners in this part of the neighborhood, who had the retching scent pulled into THEIR swamp coolers, and into their homes! People began leaving their homes, in a vain attempt to get away from the terrible odor. That is when some of the neighbors noticed the Shoemake boys -- and the skunk -- and putting two and two together, knew we were the cause of the scintillating episode, and the authors of their distress! It was hard to tell which exhibited more anger, the homeowners or the skunk.

We couldn't help laughing, however, and as we ran back toward our home, we had no idea that the stinky business had enveloped OUR home as well! To make matters worse, one or more of the neighbors up the hill had called Mom and Dad and had expressed their displeasure with the Shoemake boys. We got into trouble, but, in a day or two, when the stink had abated a little, all was forgiven...at home. Some of the neighbors never did seem to 'forgive and forget'. To this day I don't know why we did it...it made no scents then...and it still makes no scents at all! :)

My 'break-up' with Norwich Pharmaceuticals

I was a gawky kid. Skinny and buck teeth that stuck out so far I should have been required to put red flags on the ends of them so people could see me coming and not get impaled on them! Socially I was ill-at-ease, due to my looks. On the outside, I was sort of a misfit. On the inside, however, I lived a rich, fulfilled life. By
5th grade I had read every book in the elementary school library in Houston, Texas. I read voraciously (still do!), and loved to learn. I did not, however, care for learning 'classroom style'. On the outside, I probably appeared to be a little socially challenged, while on the inside, life was good! I was a quiet kid, preferring solitude to being with 'the crowd.'

When I was 15, in 1959, and had just started the 10th grade, I was asked, by one of the deacons at the La Marque church of Christ, to 'wait on the table', and was further asked to offer prayers for the bread, the fruit of the vine and then, later, before the offering. I practiced all week long, trying to 'get it together' for the big event.

When it was time to assemble before the congregation, I looked out at the crowd and, at the moment when it was time for the prayer for the bread, I 'double-clutched'---froze up!---and just stood there, for what seemed like minutes. People began raising their heads and looking at me. I stared back at them. I was dying inside, but I couldn't make a sound! Finally, at long, long last, one of the grown men standing there beside me, offered a prayer for the bread, while I stood there, red-faced with shame.

The communion service seemed to take hours, and, as I passed the plates and trays with the other kids and men who were helping, I just wanted to run out of the building. I had never before been humiliated at church. I had been humiliated plenty of times at school, but church had always been a 'sanctuary'. Now, I felt I had been 'discovered' at church -- I had been been plopped down in the 'scales of life' and had come up short!

When the communion service was over, I sneaked out of the back of the building and went to Dad's car and got in and got down in the floorboard in the back seat, and stayed there, out of sight, until church was over and my parents came to the car and we left. This was my high-water-mark of shame, and it would be years before I would lead another prayer in public.

Fast forward to 1985, 26 years later. Teeth now straightened. Married with two kids, Gena and Jeff. I had graduated from OCC and entered sales work -- insurance sales. Then sales of data communications equipment. Most of my adult life has been spent in sales of some kind. However, getting up in front of a lot of people had still always been difficult for me. Then, in 1985, a friend of mine -- Bill Thompson (he and Kathy are members at Memorial Road), asked me to be his guest at Edmond Toastmasters on a Friday morning. I went with Bill -- a little reluctantly -- since the idea of getting up in front of a group of people had always given me, shall we say, 'severe intestinal distress'....oh, what the heck, let me be blunt: raging diarrhea!

In this group setting, I saw other people trying to overcome their fear of public speaking. This setting, however, was different: instead of receiving ridicule at every slip-up, here were people who were understanding and sympathetic. I found camaraderie and wonderful support. The others in this Toastmasters group represented a wide range of speaking ability. Some were new, like I was. Some had been involved with the group for awhile and were steadily improving. Others were seasoned, competent speakers. Everyone was made to feel welcome. We were given a manual, with specific assignments made for our level of competence (or lack thereof). The assignments gradually became more challenging sequentially. One would start out with an 'Icebreaker', telling about oneself. Other elements were added over the weeks ahead, including things like: eye contact, gestures, voice modulation, voice projection, vocabulary, speech organization, the use of humor, and so many other elements to successful public speaking. I have never been in another organization more supportive of an individuals attempts at self-improvement. One is not 'judged' by comparison with others in the group...one's performance is compared, week by week, with the objectives in ones' manual for that specific assignment. Now, back to my story -- the reason for this post on my blog!

After I had visited the Toastmasters #170 group in Edmond, with Bill Thompson, I was given a manual and with it, my first assignment: My 'Icebreaker'. I agreed to give my Icebreaker the following Friday morning. I left the meeting all fired up, but, once I was back home, reading the manual, my old fears surfaced again. 'What have I gotten into?' I thought. My mind began racing as I tried to figure a graceful way of bowing out of this commitment. One well-worn excuse after another kept popping into my mind. I mentally tried on different excuses -- to see if any of them would sound solid. No luck. Finally, I resigned myself to going through with it. The fear of public speaking, they say, is greater than the fear of death itself. I believed it! My mind became like a racehorse, speeding around the track, looking for a gap in the fence that I could charge through and get away from the stress and anxiety --- the raw fear that gripped me!

Thursday night came and I found myself, in the bathroom, on the throne, for hours----as I contemplated Friday morning and the fate that awaited me at 7:00 a.m., just hours away. I heard the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the ticks started sounding like the pounding of a blacksmith's hammer on his anvil, as he finished attaching the ball and chain to my ankle, sealing my destiny, as a prisoner of fear!

It was now 3 a.m., and in the solitude of our master bathroom, once again seated on the throne of my misery while reading the label on my last bottle of Pepto Bismol, I idly read the contents of the bottle, wondering when the action of the pink liquid would begin to quell my insides. Then I read on the label that the product was made by Norwich Pharmaceuticals, and a light went off in my head! That's it, I nearly yelled out loud! THAT'S IT! I'll give my Icebreaker as a humorous speech...about my lifelong fear of public speaking and how I intent to change all of that through Toastmasters! I'm going to learn to speak in front of groups with no fear!

A few hours later, I dressed in a suit and delivered my Icebreaker. The title of my Icebreaker was: 'MY BREAK FROM NORWICH PHARMACEUTICALS' The butterflies in my stomach were not gone, but as someone else once said: "the butterflies are not gone, but now they're flying in formation!" That was my first speech in Toastmasters, but I won 'Best Speaker of the Day', and, from that point forward, speaking in public has never again been a source of unbridled fear. I was able to cut my depencence on Pepto Bismol. I was free at last!

Fear is not a bad thing...it can allow you to focus wonderfully, as it can make your brain feel like it is on fire....and you can call on mental resources you do not even know that you have. Too much fear is debilitating. Too little fear and your mental preparation may be sluggish. Preparation, as through Toastmasters, and the training it provides, can help you 'organize and control' your fear and help you say what you want to say.

The training one receives from Toastmasters can also help you improve your speech, helping you leave out all the extraneous 'you knows'...and 'uhs'....and, uh, uh, you know.....that mark the speech of many people. Did you hear Caroline Kennedy's interview recently? Someone said that in a matter of a couple of minutes, she said 'uh' and 'you know' dozens and dozens of times.

If the fear of speaking in public is something that you feel is holding you back, and if you want to change, I would suggest that you drop in sometime, here in Edmond, at Edmond Toastmasters #170, and start down a path that may change your life! It changed mine! I only remained in Toastmasters for a few years, but, in that time, I was given some great training and some great evaluations, and, once I had completed the first manual of assignments, I became a 'Competent Toastmaster.'

I am grateful to the Toastmasters International organization for a life-changing experience.