Kickin' The Tires

I hear file drawers clanking open

2010-07-18T15:56:00.000-07:00

Today, having Sunday lunch with my kids and their spouses and babies, we were all together in the den, laughing and telling stories. Jeff started to tell a story we had all heard before, and I pantomimed the opening of a file drawer. It's an inside joke that Jeff and I share. Years ago I told my family that when I am around some people -- who, like me, don't remember that they have bored the same people over and over with some story from their past -- I mentally go to a place where I envision this scenario.....

I'm having a conversation with someone and say something...anything...anything at all...a single word, like, uh, 'spiders', and suddenly, it's like I can almost hear the other person (we'll call him or her 'the bore'), open one of those old metal file cabinet drawers, that screeches and scrapes as it slides out. I mentally see that person (the bore), lean over and search intently through a mental 'S' drawer, where he or she pulls out a heavily soiled, 2 inch thick manila folder, full of spider stories, whereupon he or she begins regaling me with every spider story in his or her mental manila folder of memories.

Okay, stop! This is getting awkward: I'm going to say this bore is a guy, so I can stop with the nonsense of saying 'he or she' all the time. Non-specificity about gender leaves one with the 'he or she' label, which one often uses to avoid saying 'their' which denotes more than one person, and makes the one telling the story look grammatically challenged -- mixing singular and plural pronouns. So there -- it's a guy...'he'. Now, back to the story...

After being exhausted as the victim of countless 'spider' stories, I try to make my get-away, and say I need to leave....and say something like: 'Sorry, but I have to run now...I've got to go...(where? think of something fast!..before another file cabinet drawer is yanked open!!)...I've got to go get my 'oil' changed'. As I glance at my watch, with the look of contrived urgency of one trying to escape, the 'bore' reaches for the 'O' drawer (where 'oil' change stories sit, in their well-worn massive file folder). Oh no! Not to be ensnared again, I start walking backwards -- hurriedly reaching for my keys and hauling the mail to my truck.

Safely inside my truck, I drive away -- so thankful to be out of the clutches of the bore.

I know that I am as guilty as anyone else of being 'that guy' or 'that lady'....the one that people run from because they don't want to become engaged in conversation with a person who does the 'file cabinet routine' with everyone who stands still in their presence for more than a moment.

Our family now has a new rule -- one that we adopted just today: When any of us even looks like 'he or she' is about to reach for the mental file cabinet drawer at one of our 'Shoemake Sunday' get-togethers, the rest of us will automatically pantomime the opening of a heavy file cabinet drawer while the offending person is looking at us. With these gentle reminders, and some grins and laughs, we're hoping that we can all become better, more courteous conversationalists. Good idea...don't you think?

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

2009-12-20T15:23:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-11T08:28:00.001-08:00

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!

2009-12-09T05:50:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-23T20:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-30T15:59:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-08-22T19:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-15T20:30:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-06-10T20:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-20T07:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-19T18:59:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-19T18:48:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-17T17:05:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-03-28T19:39:00.000-07:00

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'

2009-03-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-03-14T18:32:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-03-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

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'

2009-02-19T04:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-13T20:00:00.001-08:00

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!

2009-02-12T16:00:00.001-08:00

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!

2009-01-26T18:05:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-26T15:57:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-24T09:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Winner-winner, chicken dinner!

2009-01-16T20:52:00.000-08:00

This message is for the winners of the putter drawing for those faithful readers of my blog. (See an earlier post) To Matt Gayle and Neil Arter, your putters will be ready on Monday, January 19th. Devynna, your putter will be ready the following weekend, since I got your artwork a little later than I did from the others, and had to wait until I had about 40 names of people for the next batch of putters, and I included your name with theirs. I will have that artwork back by next Wednesday, I hope, and can have your putter ready for Justin by the weekend, when I get back from a fast trip to Texas. I never heard from the other winner, so I will do a 'makeup drawing' for the last putter....and will select from names of people who comment in January. I'm enjoying your comments, and I also enjoy the putter drawings. Thanks for making this so much fun!

Paula and I are just reviving our golf club company, after a 7-year hiatus, while we looked for a foundry that could make high quality stainless steel putter heads. We never found one in the U.S. that would work with us, so we went offshore. Didn't want to, but, that's why we did what we did. Our order came in in late fall and we have been putting everything together again in order to 'open our doors' again for business! We're there, and we're having fun already. Our company name is CustomPutt, Inc., (not a typo--CustomPutt is one word), and the name of the putter is One Stroke. It's 'not just a pretty face', but it is a fully-functional putter, that is so beautiful it almost looks like a piece of jewelry.

It has taken awhile, due to a heavy work load in the roofing business, to be able to put all the pieces together again, to be ready to start production of the clubs, but we're there, finally! For you winners, we hope you'll enjoy them!

Fore!....or, was that four...as in 4? That's it! Four! Four winners! Leave your comments and maybe you'll win a beautiful, custom-personalized putter, with your printed name or actual signature, prominently displayed in the club head (see the earlier post, for a picture of the club head).

Later! :)

Christians shouldn't call it "Pot Luck"

2009-01-11T10:41:00.000-08:00

Today, at Memorial Rd., I was mentally right square in the middle of another really good sermon from Mark Taylor, about the qualifications of elders, when my stomach started talking to me....I was really hungry because we got up late and did not have time for breakfast. Don't tell the preacher, but, for a minute or two, I got really sidetracked, thinking about food. I don't take orders from my stomach, (not that you'd know that by looking at me...I, like my Dad and my siblings always have looked like we were ready for market!), but, for just a minute or two, I was slopping around in a mental world of caloric indulgence!

I then carried the food thought to tonight, when our Brother's Keepers group will get together and I thought of how much I always look forward to that event! Then I thought of what they call the randomness of the food selections that are always brought to these wonderful fellowship events. They call the food part of the get-together, a "Pot Luck". Tongue-in-cheek, I smiled at the thought that Christians are not about 'luck', and perhaps we should have another name for it. I instantly settled on the name: "Pot Providence", since I firmly believe that God is in control of this world. Whether or not God has anything to do with the apparent randomness of our selection of food dishes for Brothers Keepers, I do like the new name much better, and, think we should immediately adopt this new descriptive name for our fellowship events. Naturally, I want full credit for the name, and would appreciate all of you honoring my ownership of this name. Accordingly, I expect an immediate and continued influx of royalty payments, as you pick up on and begin using this new name-- a name that is more reflective of our true sentiments regarding God's interest in and direction of our lives as Christians. I realize that 'Pot Providence' is a mouthful...and it might be simpler to just abbreviate it and call it 'P-P', but....on second thought, that might not be a great name. Let's just stick with the game change and call it 'Pot Providence'...agreed?

Let the royalties begin!

P.S. Mark smiled at me as he and his family walked by where Paula and I were sitting. Mark is a wonderful preacher, and he always speaks to my heart. I've asked God to forgive me for my inattention for a couple of minutes. If I knew their names, I would apologize to the people sitting in the first five rows nearest where we were sitting, who had to listen to the yearnings of my stomach. Sorry! (I hope that Mark wasn't smiling as he walked by because he heard me all the way up front to the pulpit! I'm almost paranoid enough to believe just that!).

The Night in 1961 When We Went 'Holy Rolling'

2009-01-11T05:00:00.000-08:00

One night, after church, when I was 17, five guys-- all of us members of the Sunset church of Christ in Oak Cliff, in Dallas, were 'out' after church one night. We had often driven by a converted movie theater on the west side of Oak Cliff, and we decided to go into what was now called 'Soul's Harbor'. We knew this to be a church of what people back then called 'Holy Rollers', and we were curious about them. We parked the car we were in and went inside. The group consisted of Lloyd (the son of Loyd Smith, our preacher), my brother George and I, James Morgan and John Bixby.

Once inside, we found our way to the auditorium. We just followed the sounds of the loud music. We sat near the back of the old theater -- all of us in a row -- and were amazed at what we saw! The semi-darkened auditorium was comfortable and clean, and we could see a woman down front on the stage. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown of some kind, with what looked like red roses all over it. She had the microphone, and she was 'talking, gesturing, exhorting and at times, almost shouting' -- working the crowd. She had a number of people on the stage with her, and a number of them had musical instruments. We could not tell that they were playing any kind of music, in particular. It seemed like the guitars and the drums were more for emphasis to her spoken words than anything else....much like what one sees now when watching Jay Leno at night. While this woman was walking around and stirring up the crowd, many people in the audience were doing things as well. Some people had their hands up in the air, and were waving back and forth, like people one sometimes sees at a sporting event. Others were writhing around, while still more or less in a standing position. Some seemed to be under some kind of spell, and a few were down on the floor in the aisles, being attended to by people, in an unhurried, nonchalant manner. We assumed that those prostrate on the floor had been 'slain in the spirit.'

I assumed that this was a pretty regular occurrence-- we had never seen anything like this all our lives! We had all grown up in a very conservative church of Christ, our services being predictably: announcements, a song and a prayer, two more songs and a sermon with an invitatiion, followed by another song and a closing prayer, and all of it timed to net out to an hour, or, a little less. Any longer than that and people would be looking at their watches...and at each other, with those telltale looks that spoke volumes. The 'weak brothers and sisters'...those who sat on the 'cafeteria early-bird pews' at the back, would get up, family-by-family, with somber, 'we don't want to leave early, but we have urgent business somewhere to take care of' looks on their faces, and they would load up in their cars and head for Wyatt's cafeteria. These were never the elders and deacons, nor those who were 'involved' in anything. These people were the 'fringies'...people on the fringe of things at church....not the 'movers and shakers' who sat further up toward the pulpit. (Halfway kidding here). Things at Sunset were sedate, and predictable. Nothing like this!

As time went on that evening, it got louder and louder. At one point, a bunch of big, burly guys took up a collection. People were getting up and moving about, and it was not at all like what went on at the Sunset church of Christ. We were astounded at the racket, the loud music, the drums and cymbals, and the activities on stage and in the audience. While there were likely over a hundred people in the old converted theater, it was not a packed crowd, and a lot of people were constantly getting up and down, moving around. It was a restless bunch of people. At one point, we were having a little trouble being respectful and considerate. We were getting tickled at what we saw, and it was about time for us to leave. My brother, George, reached into his pocket when they were taking up another collection, and he threw a penny from the back of the auditorium toward the stage.

What happened next brought our visit to Souls Harbor to a screeching halt! The penny appeared to strike the woman on the stage right in the forehead and she reeled back. Her shouting stopped and she shielded her eyes against the bright stage lights and looked out over the audience. She spotted us, as we were making our departure, and she shouted something --in a surprisingly husky voice-- that sounded very much like: 'GET 'EM!!'

At once, those same big burly men --- now identified to us by their demeanor and appearance as bouncers -- came running toward us from different places in the auditorium! We headed for the exit doors at a dead run. We all arrived at the bank of exit doors pretty much at the same time, but as we approached the doors and had our arms out in front of us, to 'hit the doors running', we heard a deep, angry voice shout, 'COME HERE, RED!' RED?! Not me! -- I had blond hair! The guy was going for John Bixby, who had flaming red hair. John was also over 200 pounds back then. The rest of us were in the neighborhood of 140-150 pounds. As the bouncer shouted at John and reached out toward him (all of us were running) -- John didn't open the door -- he more or less crashed through the doorway in panic-- sending the door flying open. The rest of us, having heard the booming voice of the bouncer, also were through our doors with...shall we say...a bit of a sense of haste, mixed with thoughts of impending doom.

We were now flying down the sidewalk, heading, not for our car, but for the adjacent neighborhood, where we split up and ran through the alleys. The bouncers-- four or five of them, as I remember -- were in hot pursuit. That proved to be a good thing-- the bouncers were big men, and they couldn't run like the five of us. As the expression we often used in those days went: We were 'hookin' 'em!'...running like the wind! We ran into the alleyways, hiding behind trash cans, garages, bushes, etc. John Bixby, scared witless, outran most of us! John's athletic skills, born of sheer terror, were only matched by James Morgan, who leaped over a fence that I had trouble climbing over! I had never seen Morgan move at greater than a snail's pace. He walked slowly and talked slowly. I had no idea he could move like that! We were so scared we were laughing some...nervous, scared-to-death laughter.

Eventually, the bouncers, who had searched for us for some time in a car, gave up the search. We had seen them cruising up and down the streets and alleyways in their big car -- windows down, big, burly arms hanging out the windows, making their 1950's Ford look like a giant, menacing, many-legged bug as they 'trolled the area around the church', looking for us. We clearly felt that they were not searching for us, like Good Shepherds, looking to find the lost sheep...rather, we felt like they were more like Avenging Angels, eagerly seeking to introduce us to the wrath of God, swift Judgment and Eternal Doom!

Much later on, we sneaked back into the parking lot, next to the 'Temple of Doom' and retrieved Lloyd's car and went home. Much, much later, we were all ashamed over our behavior. I didn't know that George was going to throw a penny. George didn't have any idea that his penny would do anything more than clatter around on the stage. It didn't matter that we had not gone there to cause trouble. What mattered is that we DID cause trouble, and had shown disrespect to people who, no doubt, were worshipping God and seeking miraculous healing for their afflictions. Most of the people in the audience were probably sincere -- everyone except the leaders of that Souls Harbor outfit. (For more information on that organization, and its leaders, and what they allegedly did in the name of God, do a Google search and read all about it). What we did was still wrong. No doubt about it. We all laughed about it back then. As we got older, we realized that what we had done was clearly wrong. One can disagree with religious error, and recognize when some people are apparently taking advantage of other people's pain and fear and ignorance. Ridicule, and disrespect, however, are always wrong, and we all eventually learned lessons from the evening we went 'holy rolling.'

Caught Playing Hookey

2009-01-08T16:05:00.000-08:00

In the fall of 1959, I had just started the 10th grade. I was 15, and didn't care much for school. I was younger than my classmates, and didn't fit in very well. Besides, I was skinny (believe it or not!), and had a really flashy set of Mortimer Snerd buck teeth. All these things combined to make me wish I could be invisible.

We lived in La Marque, Texas, right outside Galveston, and many of the townspeople were of German or French origin. I mentioned in an earlier blog about the name of my high school principal, Mr. Schlegelmilch. My boss, at the grocery store where I worked after school, was Mrs. Meisetschlager. A lot of the names were a mouthful, to say the least. The high school I attended wasn't bad -- I was just not very happy being there.

One fine, sun-shiny day, after arriving at school, a friend of mine from the next street over --- Bobby Frankovitch -- who was a year older and much more mature (NOT) than I was, talked me into skipping school with him. So, we skipped out and left school in the early afternoon. As we meandered down neighborhood streets, heading in a general direction toward the neighborhood where we lived, we stopped and picked ripe fruit from someone's kumquat tree (a delicious orange-like fruit, with an edible skin -- oval shaped). We loaded up on fruit and then continued slowly walking down the street. It was warm, so we both took off our shirts and tied them around our waists. We couldn't go home --- our Moms were stay-at-home Moms and we didn't want to get 'busted', so we picked a vacant lot next to a large, 2-story home and made ourselves comfortable under the shade of a big moss-festooned oak tree.

We were enjoying ourselves immensely, when, suddenly, a really old, very thin woman, wearing an apron and brandishing a broom, came from the 2-story house and told us, in decidedly unfriendly tones, to 'march ourselves right back to school'. I was not brought up to be disrespectful to my elders, but Bobby had no such inhibitions. He talked back to the lady, and she swatted him with the broom. Bobby grabbed the business end of the broom and didn't turn loose for a few seconds. The little old lady didn't like that a bit. She returned to the house. We continued laying out on the ground, but then decided that maybe we should move on down the street.

We continued walking and eating fruit, and before long, a police cruiser, with lights flashing, pulled up next to us and told us to get in. As it turned out, the little old lady with the broom ran a boarding house for retired school teachers! We really could pick great places to skip school, swipe fruit and take naps!

"Oh, great, I thought!

We've done it now! We're gonna get in a lot of trouble!"

Bobby was strangely unconcerned, and said not to worry about it. He said that he had skipped school before. "All they'll do is bust us a few times", he said. My eyes got large. "We're gonna get busted?," I asked. Bobby laughed. I guessed, right about then that Bobby's rear end was a little more calloused than mine was. I didn't want to get in trouble, and I really didn't want to get busted!

The police officer pulled right into the circle driveway on the back side of the high school, and, as bad luck would have it, classes had turned out, and everybody was heading for their last class of the day. Everybody in school, it seemed, was an eye-witness to our shame. As we were escorted to the Principal's office by a big police officer, in uniform, packing all the usual menacing weapons that police officers carry, we were really quite a sight.

Bobby was expelled from school from three days. He had indeed 'played hookey' before-- twice before, as it turned out! Claude Hall, the Principal, then asked me to enter his office. I couldn't have been more embarrassed. Principal Hall was one of the deacons at the La Marque church of Christ, where my parents and I were members. I felt such shame at my public reproach! When he had me seated in his office, he looked at me with those unsmiling, baleful eyes and said: "Gene, I suppose you think I'm mad at you for the stunt that you and Bobby pulled today." That statement was more than a statement--it was a question -- so, I responded with:
"Yes, sir," to which he replied, after a pregnant pause: "Well, Gene, I'm not mad...I'm just really disappointed." Upon hearing those words, I felt like whale poop at the bottom of the ocean...that, according to others of my age at La Marque High School, was 'as low as you can go.'

I was sent home for the rest of the day, and arrived home to my Mom, waiting at the front door, her face full of embarrassment, anger, concern, and sorrow at my having 'pulled such a stunt'. I was too old and too big for her to whip, so she gave me the silent treatment until Dad got home. When he arrived, he ruined the rest of my day...

Needless to say, I had to walk the straight and narrow at home, school and church --but, before long, the shame and ridicule began to die down. I went back to being an awkward kid who never got in trouble. I worked at Evans grocery store, and became pretty good at catching shoplifters. I felt important at home because I bought the family groceries during the 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th grades, and my freshman year at Fort Worth Christian College, with my 6-day a week jobs at grocery stores in La Marque and in Dallas, after school and on Saturdays. That was important to my sense of worth as a family member. I was never a good student-- I was not interested in school-- but I felt validated and needed, and that was a good thing, I think.

Bobby and I were, after a time, allowed to spend time together again-- catching and raising snakes that we caught in the vacant lots near our home. I was not allowed to keep the snakes that were poisonous (Bobby kept all of those, because his parents didn't mind), but the two of us put together quite a collection of beautiful specimens. Catching snakes was pretty much the sum total of my leisure time. To instantly identify a startled snake, and lunge to grab it safely without harming it meant that I had to be quick, and I was. Snagging snakes helped me develop some awesome reflexes! I decided to start lifting weights and then selected self-defense instruction in school as an elective in gym class. Still skinny and scrawny at first, I found something that caught my interest and in which I found an aptitude.

The next year, a freak accident in shop class elevated my standing at school (read about it in one of my earlier posts), and I was then accepted among my peers. For the first time in my life, I felt that I had been accorded a degree of respect from a number of guys at school who had previously picked on me with impunity. That bullying all stopped-- all of it. I began to enjoy school and never again thought of 'playing hookey!' The self-defense training and weight lifting gradually bore fruit. Previously, I had no direction without or within, but, over time, I began to focus on what I enjoyed and then everything -- at home -- at school and at church, began to come together for me. I began to feel a little better about myself and became a happier kid. Life became sweet -- and has been for pretty much all of my adult life!

God is good, and although each of us progresses through life with 'fits and starts' on our part -- sometimes 'one step forward and two steps back' -- He is faithful to mold us and guide us if we'll just let Him. Although I never 'played hookey' again in school, during my adult life, there have been occasions when I have played hookey with God, and have not always lived up to the expectation that God has always had for me. I have played spiritual hookey, and have lost the focus that I have always known that would have been more pleasing to God. God has not punished me over the years, however, and when I fail, I hear, through his Eternal Word, the voice of God telling me: "No, Gene, I'm not mad, I'm just really disappointed." Ouch! Those soft-spoken words --now the words of God echoing in my mind -- rather than the stern words of a high school Principal, prompt me to try to live better each day. I'm so glad that God is patient and forgiving!

What about you...do you sometimes 'play hookey' with the responsibilities that God has put before you?

"ALL ABOARD!"

2009-01-07T08:18:00.000-08:00

I grew up around trains. My Mom's dad, Hoyt E. McElroy, was a railroad man for the KATY in Denison, Texas, until his death in the 1950's. His name is inscribed in the granite obelisk outside the KATY depot in Denison, along with all the old-time men who were special people at the Katy, also known as the M-K-T. M-K-T stood for Missouri, Kansas, Texas.

My Dad also worked for the KATY back during the late 1950's. I called Grandpa McElroy 'Papaw', and still remember, like it was just yesterday, that kind old man and his soft brown leather jackets, his really cool 'old man hats' that he wore to work each day, his sweet-smelling pipe and cigars, and his gold railroad watch and long, watch fobs that hung from his vests. I also remember how good he always smelled -- that clean, just-got-out-of-the-tub smell, mingled with the smell of Old Spice. I remember his easy smiles and good nature. I never saw him angry or in a hurry, and he always had time for his grandkids. One of my fondest memories was of Papaw raking and burning leaves in his backyard on crisp autumn days.

Papaw loved to take me and my brother George, to the local store, a block away, and buy us trinkets. Little Scottie dogs -- one black and one white -- with magnets that would make the little dogs move around each other like...well, Scotties would move...fast and abrupt! He would also buy us little pocket knives with pearl handles, or flashlights. We were always astounded at his generosity. He also loved to buy us candy. Our trips to Denison from Dallas were always special treats. On occasion Papaw would take me to the train yard in Denison, four block west of their home at 515 E. Woodard. He would let me climb aboard the train and explore the little KATY cabooses in the yard. I still have one of the caboose keys. It is a huge key.

It was fun to go outside their home at different times during the day and watch the big steam engines moving about the train yard, assembling the trains. Those massive locomotives would belch monstrous clouds of steam and soot into the sky, sometimes almost blocking the sun near the end of the day when the sun would lie low in the sky. Those engines would rev up and then the huge wheels would spin as they sought traction on the steel tracks. They would spin and then 'catch' and the train would begin to move, ever so slowly. The sounds of those engines would rattle my chest and I could feel the sounds as well as hear them. I loved the train yards, and would always breathe deeply to inhale the smells of creosote from the crossties on the tracks, as well as the smells of the diesel engines. I loved to look at the different cars that made up the trains, with their different shapes, sizes and colors. I marveled at the size of those cars and how even such massive engines could pull so many loaded cars. It was fun to imagine the origins and destinations of all those individual cars. I got hooked on trains!

Later on my Dad worked for the KATY and he, too, had a lot of neat 'gear' that he used in his work. He taught me, as my Papaw had taught me, about the different signals that railroad men used (and may still use, for all I know). For most of my life I have enjoyed standing near railroad crosssings and waving to and smiling at the engineers in the locomotives as they pass the crossings. I love to feel the rush of the wind as they pass by, and feel the vibration of the very ground on which I am standing. I love the noises from the axles of the cars and the sounds of metal structures scraping against each other as the trains pass. I enjoy hearing the sounds of the air hoses and the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the tracks. My Mom was raised by Papaw and Granny right there in Denison. She grew up around trains and also loved them. As a little girl she never minded the soot that always laid like dust all over everything in their home. The engines produced enormous clouds of soot and the soot, when the wind was just right, was invariably pulled right through the windows of their home when they were open or when they turned on their attic fan.

When Mom was 81, she moved to Edmond so we could take care of her as we lost her one day at a time due to Alzheimers. To the end of her life, she and I, while we talked around Oklahoma Christian Home, reciting Rudyard Kipling's 'L-Envoi' to each other and reminiscing about God, family, flowers, our rock collections, Heaven, Eternity...and, yes, trains, we would often hear the far-away sound of an approaching train. Quickly we would jump into my truck and head a few blocks west of Boulevard, in Edmond, to a train crossing where we would stop and wait for the train. We would get out of the truck (unless the weather was really bad) and stand there, soaking up the experience -- the sounds and smells and 'train breeze' and, hand-in-hand, with smiles on our faces and with an occasional tear in our eyes, remember days gone by. Often my tears were not brought about only by the good-old-days, but, as I looked over at my tiny little Mom, I was living in the moment, realizing that I was losing her a little more each day, and before long, I would no longer enjoy these sweet moments with this perfect woman who was my Mom. Those thoughts would cause me to grip her little hand a little tighter and hold her a little closer, as I tried through sheer will to remember every detail of this moment.

Mom's gone now -- she, like a lot of old railroads, finally reached the 'end of the line' in November of 2004. Although I still go out of my way to be the first at a railroad crossing whenever possible, it's not the same to me now, since she's not there to share in something that was so special also to her. Still, old habits and memories 'die hard' and I imagine that I'll always smile and respond to the sound of Mom's 'choo-choo's' and seek them out, for they provide a visual and auditory portal into the past for me, allowing me to remember, with great clarity, not so much about the trains themselves, but the people in my life who loved them like I love them and thrilled to the sounds and sights and smells of the old KATY railroad..... "ALL ABOARD!"

Observations About Neighbors -- Part 2

2009-01-01T06:05:00.000-08:00

My neighbors are, and for the most part, have always been wonderful people. We live in a neighborhood that has been fairly 'stable' for the 33 years we have lived here, since we built our home in 1975. It is the only home that Paula and I have ever lived in since we married in August of 1972. Most of our neighbors have been here for most of that time. I think, though, that we may be the 'oldest residents' of our neighborhood, just east of the OC campus.

The family to the south of us (where Neil and Joni now live) moved next door to us back in the late '70's, right after Gena was born. They were nice neighbors. They had three sons, and moved here from Michigan. The husband worked at an automotive assembly plant and his wife was a Registered Nurse. They worked hard and took care of their property and were good neighbors. We tried to interest them in Jesus Christ, but they, while polite, were not interested. I'll come back to their story in a few minutes...

Another neighbor, who lived across the street from us (and still lives there, by the way), is a member at Memorial Road. He and his wife, Shirley, moved here from a much smaller community south and east of the OKC area where they had raised their kids. Leon and Shirley Eldridge were such sweet neighbors, and Paula and I really enjoyed getting to know them. We had the Lord as a 'common interest,' and, over time, got acquainted with their two beautiful daughters, Crystal (Loden) and Jeanette (Zeller). This family had it all together, and they all loved the Lord. They are all wonderful people!

As sometimes happens in life, tragedy befell both of the families mentioned above. Our next door neighbor found out she had inoperable lung cancer, and Shirley found out that she had malignant melanoma. The way that these two women dealt with the realities of their condition, and the way they faced the future, was dramatically different, and this difference is the reason for this posting on my blog.

When the next door neighbor found out that she had inoperable lung cancer, she was, of course, shocked. She had never smoked, but she was a nurse, and worked in an area hospital where smoking occurred in the 'break room' that medical personnel frequented. She immediately launched into an aggressive program, with her doctors, trying to find some treatment -- some cure. She went to and consulted with, doctors all over the U.S. She tried 'alternative treatments'...including shark cartilage, and other potions, in a desperate effort to battle the cancer (I would do the same, I imagine). Nothing helped. She deteriorated steadily. While maintaining a cheery facade, she was clearly distraught. Toward the end of her life, she was panicky, and clearly beside herself with anxiety. With no belief in God or the hereafter, she faced THE END of her existence, in her mind. She told me one day, in a more or less joking way, that she had asked four people to pray for her...a protestant minister, a Jewish rabbi, a Catholic priest and an atheist(??!!!). In disbelief, and saddened by her admission of this -- (in a joking sort of way, as if this was somehow funny)-- I asked her why she had done this. Her answer me shocked me to the core, as she told me: "I WANTED TO COVER ALL MY BASES!" She still had no interest in a relationship with God, but, in an attempt to 'leave no stone unturned', she threw this out, in an off-hand way, as one more straw at which she was grasping, as she approached the end of her life. I was asked to deliver the eulogy at her funeral, and I did -- telling the assembled friends and co-workers of this nice lady, mother, wife and neighbor-- the things about her that were commendable, and
what a nice neighbor she had been. I was aware of people who knew her as a nurse, and they all had wonderful things to say about her. I talked about her, what she was like, as a neighbor -- always doing nice things for people around her. I shared with the audience, stories of Brenda's work in her yard, and how it appeared that she had planted, in her yard, one of everything God had created! I could not, however, say anything to ease the distress her family and friends, because neither she, nor her husband, or any of their children had (or have now), any relationship with Jesus Christ. The eulogy was hard to deliver, for there was nothing of lasting relevance that I could say. No hope of a continued life beyond this earthly life. My words sounded hollow to me, and I left the lecturn sad and unsettled.

My sweet neighbor across the street -- Shirley Eldridge -- fought valiantly as well, but, as she approached the end of her life, she, with a smile told my wife, Paula: "I'm ready to meet the Lord -- He can beam me up right now!" Shirley calmly approached the end of life with peace in her heart - with equanimity, with the assurance that only those who believe in Jesus Christ can understand. Leon and his daughters, Crystal and Jeanette and their spouses and children -- and a vast number of friends and Christians who knew Shirley and her family, ultimately lost Shirley. I was asked by the family to deliver the eulogy, and I was honored to have that privilege. It was a joy to tell a little about this wonderful woman, who graced this world with her life, and influenced so many for Christ as she raised two wonderfully sweet girls, and did so much for so many people during her life. The crowd of people at her funeral service were saddened by the loss of this beautiful lady -- their loss at not seeing her again in this life -- but there was a sustained happiness of those in attendance, at the realization that this fine woman was not dead, but will live forever!...in the eternal presence of God Almighty! I left the pulpit at the Edmond church of Christ, and, although sad over the loss of Shirley, I was simultaneously happy that her struggle was over and life for Shirley would continue -- in another place reserved for those who die in the Lord.

As we enter a new year, full of hope and promise, I think of New Beginnings...and, as I think of New Beginnings, I can't help but to once again, in my mind, re-live the stories of these two very nice women, and be impacted all over again at the contrast between their respective lives....one that is bleak and a heart-breaker, and the other-- a wonderful life, now made perfect through Christ-- a soul that will live for eternity in the presence of our majesstic God!

Thank you for allowing me to share this story with you. I pray that all of you will enjoy a wonderful New Year, basking in the light of the love of the Lord!

Happy New Year!

Observations about Neighbors -- Part 1

2008-12-31T07:01:00.000-08:00

Over the years, I have, from time to time, sometimes been described as: 'different', 'quirky', 'marching to the tune of a different drummer' and...well, you get the picture. While these observers were ALL right, to a degree, I doubt that I am any different than most people. I just don't care if I'm viewed as a little quirky. I'll own up to that characterization. Guilty as charged. People who think that THEY are not quirky, are often the quirkiest of all...they just go to great lengths to hide their quirkiness from others. They tend to be very private and reserved...and 'stingy' with their words and expressed thoughts. They maintain a facade and they do not want it breached. They don't communicate well. It's often as though their spoken words cost money and they do not want to deplete their 'verbal account.' Sometimes it's funny to observe quirkiness in people who think that THEY have it all together....like the child who covers his eyes with his hands and thinks that he is invisible to the rest of the world.

I don't dislike people like that. I accept them for who they are, and relish the kaleidoscope of varieties that humankind is comprised of. I try to not make other quirky people uncomfortable in their chosen skins. Like you, I have neighbors who represent the entire spectrum of typical American middle-classness. My next door neighbors, to the south, Neil and Joni, are open, outgoing, generous and expressive. They tell you what they are thinking. They want to know what YOU think. They are comfortable in coming over whenever the mood or opportunity strikes them, and never have an agenda. They are wonderful people to have as friends or neighbors. We have never had neighbors who were any more open, hospitable, generous, helpful or caring. (I hope they read this...we might get some more of the wonderful things from Joni's kitchen!!!). Neil and Joni are Christians...not just in name, but every pore of their bodies exudes kindness and generosity. They LIVE their Christianity. Recipients of their hospitality come and go, every week, by the dozens. Their home is the Grand Central Station of love and hospitality. I love these neighbors! They are always baking or cooking something and bringing over part of it to share with us. Neil sometimes comes over and 'vacuums' up leaves from OUR yard that he thinks might have blown there from HIS yard! I have caught him pulling the occasional weed from my iris bed in the front yard. He's always doing things to help us or another neighbor. Neil and Joni walk the talk!

I love all my neighbors, but some more than others, and that's probably not unlike your own experiences with neighbors. I have another neighbor...I love this guy, too, and I want to tell you a little about him. His name is Randy, and he is an older guy, like me. He is from the 'old school'...in a lot of ways. He is married to a lady who has been our neighbor for many years. She lost her first husband, and when she and Randy found each other, some time later, they were married and we began to get acquainted with Randy. He wears a cowboy hat...all of the time...even when mowing his yard or planting flowers for his wife. He's usually also wearing boots. Randy is one of those guys that, when noticing that you are in the middle of a project in your yard, such as cutting down a tree, will stop what he is doing and come over to help....bringing his own chain saw. He will, without your even asking, get right in the middle of your project. He doesn't 'count the cost' in time and effort. He's there to help! If I were out of town with car trouble, and called Randy, he would drop what he is doing and come running to help. His generosity has nothing to do with me...it's all about who HE is...the kind of man that Randy is.

When I think of Randy, I smile, because he's a misplaced cowboy. He is an insurance adjuster during the day, and a 'gospel cowboy' at night, singing his way into the hearts of people around the state (and sometimes out of state). Music is one of his true loves. He has a good voice, and he used it to tell people about Jesus. Sometimes, when Randy sees me out in my yard or in my pickup, he will walk over to visit. He walks toward me with those boots and that expensive cowboy hat, and, were he to be wearing one of his pistols, he would look as though he were Wyatt Earp, heading for a showdown at the OK corral! He's a frustrated cowboy, though --- all hat and no cattle! Living in Edmond, in a neighborhood, with no barbed wire, no barns full of hay and no wide open spaces. He is better suited for the open range...100 years ago. Church attendance is not a big thing with Randy. He's not for church attendance, but he's singing about our risen Lord all the time. And he is all about giving of himself to others....at the drop of his $100 hat!

We have other neighbors -- Christians who are out of a different mold. They never miss a service of the church, and come rain or snow, they are going to that building! The sad part, however, is that for 30 years that we have been neighbors, they have nothing to do with anybody. They don't even know the names of the kids who live next door to them. They have nothing to do with anyone, never have anyone in their home...never know about births and deaths and sickness, joys or sadness in the homes about them, and for thirty years, never have anything to do with anyone in the entire neighborhood. The man is an elder in his congregation, and, to my knowledge, is a good man, married to a good woman. Observing how this older (older than me makes them very, very old!) couple present themselves to the world makes me reflect on something that has its roots in a fallacy common to Christians: that church attendance, i.e. being 'at the building' every time the doors are open is a 'be-all and end-all'. I believe that true Christianity is more of what one is 'all about' 24/7. That, I believe, is what Jesus and the writers of the New Testament say that is ones' true worship...what we spend our lives doing, thinking about, praying about---the focus, the substance of our lives. It may be difficult for any of us, wanting to live for God, while voluntarily sealed off in a cave (or house), having nothing to do with the world about us. While church attendance is very important, I have often thought that when the focus is on 'trooping back and forth to a church building' and less on living for Christ and doing for others, the focus may sometimes get out of kilter. Maybe I'm wrong (nothing new to me). Again, to quote my really smart Mom, who died in 2004, at the age of 85, 'I'd rather SEE a sermon than HEAR one, anyday!!

Anyway, here are three families of very different neighbors: One family is always at the 'church-house' and is always involved in doing for others--- very giving people. Another family is never at a church building, but is always doing for other people, and singing about Jesus. The other family is always at the 'building', but has nothing to do with the world about them, and never comes outside except to go to the church building. I will not make judgments about them -- for a couple of reasons: 1. That is God's business, not mine 2. I don't know their hearts. 3. I don't want to be
the 'pot calling the kettle black'...I have enough to do trying to live my life like God wants me to live it --- and that seems more and more to me like a full-time job.

Still, it is interesting to observe the differences in people -- I have another 'installment' about neighbors to follow soon. You'll perhaps find it interesting. It will contrast observations about two other completely different families in my neighborhood -- one family who could not care less about God and another family that lives for God...and what happened when death came to visit each of these families a few years ago. Thanks for reading my blog, and, for some of you brave folks, daring to leave a comment now and then! Happy New Year!

And the winners are....!

2008-12-23T07:46:00.000-08:00

I promised a golf putter to the winner of a drawing of those who read my blog, on an earlier post. It was not a bribe, of course (that's a lie...it WAS a bribe!...and an experiment!). It was just a little fun, and, as promised, here are the winners...

There was just going to be ONE winner, but all the excitement of Christmas and the upcoming New Year got to me, and I had to do a little more than I promised!

The winners are, in no particular order: Matt Gayle, Devy Blackwelder, Melody Byrd, and Joni Arter. Sorry, Gena, your name didn't win my little lottery, but since you're my favorite daughter, you get one anyway, as does Jeff, my favorite son! People who responded more than once got their names entered more than once and had a better chance of winning. I heard more than once from Matt, Joni and Devy. Congratulations, and thanks for 'checking in' and reading my blog. This blogging thing is a lot of fun, and I'm so grateful for Gena's having gotten me into it back in July! I haven't had this much fun since the hogs ate my little sister!!!!

Here's what I need from the winners: (1). Your preference of a printed name (upper and lower case is necessary if your name is long, like Frederick Schlegelmilch, or something like that). The space I have to work with is 3/4" tall and 2 1/4" long. (2). You could send me a signature, done with a clean, fine line (not a felt-tip pen), in black ink. You would need to send it to me at CustomPutt, Inc., 3126 S. Boulevard, Ste. 258, Edmond, OK 73013. Or, you could write it out, enlarge it, and then scan it and email it to me at gshoemake@cox.net. My cell phone number is (405)-229-9649. You may want to call and make sure I have received it. (3). All putters are right-handed only. The total club length is a standard 35" from top of the grip to where the putter rests on the ground. If you are ordering this club for a short person, consider whether the club needs to be made a little shorter than 35". If you are ordering for a really tall person, consider if you would like the total club length to be a little longer, say 36 or 37". (4). If you live in OKC, you can come pick up the club when I have it ready, sometime shortly after the holidays. If you live away from OKC and can't come by for it, give me your UPS shipping address and I will send it to you.

Each club comes with a genuine, soft leather putter cover, made for my putter, with a velcro strap and black, acrylic fur interior, to protect the personalized area.

I'm working on my web site, and now that we're up and running again with our golf club business, and have all our supplies, phone number, fax line, and everything else it takes to get off the ground, we'll be doing this again next fall, and will have the contest a little earlier so the putters that we give away can be ready for delivery/shipment well before Christmas. By then we may revive some of the other custom-personalized gift items we offered previously (back before we could no longer get our components manufactured in the U.S.)--- French leaded crystal items, gold-plated desk items, and some brand new gift items -- all unique! Nothing like them anywhere else in Edmond, OK, or the rest of the known universe! Stay tuned! I'll stay in touch, so you be sure to stay in touch also!

Thanks for all of your nice comments since last July when I started blogging. I'm getting acquainted with so many sweet, wonderful people! ...many of whom I never knew before! I love reading all of your blogs, and looking over your shoulders into the lives of you and your families. This is great fun!

Merry Christmas! May God continue to bless all our lives and keep us faithful to Him!

Gene Shoemake

6 inch cuffs and a lesson in humility!

2008-12-18T20:28:00.000-08:00

Between the years of 1982 through June of 1988, I sold datacommunications equipment for a Texas-based company. We were distributors for some companies and reps for dozens of companies -- all of which made equipment for the world of datacommunications.

I had the state of Oklahoma for a territory, and traveled a lot over Oklahoma -- mainly around OKC and Tulsa with some trips to Lawton, Enid, Bartlesville. To keep up on new technology, there was a lot of ongoing 'continuing education', with meetings and seminars in places like Minneapolis, Chicago, Denver, Dallas, Houston. I was a 'suit with briefcases', and flew from place to place as needed when the distances and schedules did not permit driving.

I often spent many hours in airport lounges and hotel rooms, but, with a young family at home, found myself communicating by pay phones in airports with my family in Edmond. It was often lonely work, made a little easier, ultimately, by the invention of shoe-size mobile telephones that filled half a briefcase. That helped somewhat, but one could not talk long distance for long, as it was very expensive.

To while away the time and relax, I began taking along for company, my Bible and the latest Robert Ludlum thriller. I also took a small pallet, and some brushes and other paraphernalia for watercolor painting, and often did small watercolor paintings in the airport lounges and my motel rooms.

On one particular flight, there was a very long delay in getting a connecting flight back to OKC from someplace out of town. It had been a very long week, with not much time for rest or relaxation, and I walked into other men's room at an airport lounge at DFW. I found a clean stall and hung my coat on the back of the door and carefully set my nice leather briefcase on a relatively clean spot on the floor. Then I carefully rolled up my pants so they would not touch the floor when I sat down in the stall. I had some time before they were due to call my flight and I thought I would sit there in the quiet and read while taking care of business. Pretty soon I heard them call for the boarding of my flight, so I got up, put on my suit coat, picked up the brief case and walked over to wash my hands and make sure my hair was combed (yes, I had hair back then -- lots of it!). I dried my hands, picked up my brief case and headed back to the lounge area. There were still a lot of people sitting there, not being in much of a hurry to board.

I was puzzled at how many of the people made eye contact with me, with nice smiles on their faces. That was uncommon. People at the end of a day, on a Friday afternoon are often business travelers and they are sometimes an indifferent, if not slightly unfriendly bunch. When I had left the boarding area, to seek out a men's room, they were a surly bunch. Now their smiles caught me off guard! Some of them were actually grinning at me! I smiled and grinned right back, and got in line to board the aircraft. I had never seen so many happy-looking people in a boarding area. All those smiles gave me a lift!

I boarded the aircraft and stowed my briefcase and coat in the overhead compartment. Only when I had taken my aisle seat in coach and had crossed my leg, did I realize the reason for the uncommon friendliness and huge smiles of the people in the boarding area for my flight. I was sporting 6" cuffs on my pants! I had rolled up my cuffs to keep my clothes clean while in the men's room. Then I had forgotten to roll the cuffs back down and had confidently waltzed into the boarding area with my suit and briefcase...and a pair of huge high waters! Good grief! How utterly embarrassing!

Okay--now everybody on board the flight from Dallas to OKC knew where I had been -- and exactly what I had been doing. Great. Just great. I was mortified. People grinned at me all the way to OKC. Oh yeah, I felt like the businessman extraordinaire all right. Suave? Cool? A regular Dapper Dan? You bet...

Oh well, I told myself as I walked to the parking lot at Will Rogers airport in OKC a little later...at least I gave some weary travelers a good laugh and something to think about besides their sales quotas and the pressures of trying to make a living. All in all, I guess it was all right. I thought a little more about it and then also had a good laugh...at myself!

Since that time, I've learned to not take myself too seriously. I often see others who could do with some 6" high waters to take the edge off their sense of self-importance. It's good medicine to be humbled now and then. In a world where many of us do not want any crack to appear in our facades of who we think we appear to be to the rest of the world, a little humble pie is good for the soul.

They say that within each of us are three distinct individuals...who others think we are, who we think we are, and who we REALLY are. An embarrassing occurrence can shatter the illusions we carry around that contain our perceptions of our individual identities and give us a wholesome reality check...and that's not altogether a bad thing, I think. These days I no longer want to be full of myself...I do, however, want to be full of Christ. Bring on the humility!

'Busted -- Six Ways From Sunday'

2008-12-14T18:21:00.000-08:00

Dallas, Texas -- Summer of 1957. Edsel automobiles were new to the car scene. The Russians beat the U.S. in putting a satellite into space. I was not quite 13, and my brother George was 11.

We lived on 10th Street in Oak Cliff, 4 blocks from the Sunset church of Christ. The home where we lived on 10th Street, just off Hampton Road, was a modest brick home with a long building behind it that had a one-car garage on the east end, and laundry facilities on the west end. The middle of this long structure was one large room, which we occasionally used for 'overflow' company and as a place for George and I and our friends to play. It was about the size of an average living room. We had a ping pong table in this play area and Mom and Dad would often exile us to this 'away-from-the-house structure' when we were too loud or were not getting along too well indoors.

George and I often escaped to this garage-laundry-playroom structure to get away from a pesky four-going-on-five year old brother, Randy, and a bossy older sister, Nancy, who was 18. One day, while bored, George and I decided to explore the attic of this structure. Exploring was part of our agenda. Smoking some Marlboro cigarettes without getting caught by Mom was the primary item on our agenda. We lit up --- coughed a good bit, and then tried to act like we were enjoying the cigarettes. We felt pretty good about our safety. No way was Mom going to climb up into the attic to catch us smoking. Dad was at work, so we were safe.

We had borrowed Dad's flashlight -- a monster that used a bunch of 'D' cell batteries, and then had climbed up the vertical ladder in the garage. The flashlight was to be used to explore the attic while staying away from the inevitable spiders and wasps often found in garage attics. We found a large area full of boxes of stuff that Mom and Dad had accumulated over the years. Mostly junk, it was of no interest to us, until I found a metal box that looked interesting. It was green and looked very, very old. This was beginning to feel like a treasure hunt! We tingled with excitement! It was not locked, so, with George holding the flashlight while the smoke burned our eyes, I looked through the content of the box. Old letters! They had funny stamps on them and odd postmarks. They were old! They dated from the 1930's! They had been carefully sorted and were then wrapped in bundles with string. We were intrigued! What did we have here?!

I began reading the letters to George. We were both astounded as I read of passionate feelings my Dad was expressing to our Mom. These letters were written when dad was serving in the U.S. Maritime Service during World War II. Of course, George and I didn't know anything about 'grownup talk', like a young husband would use in writing letters to his sweet young bride, but we read and read and read, smoking those Marlboro cigarettes like crazy, and laughing out loud when we read a particularly juicy bunch of love talk! We were laughing and punching each other when I read a totally eye-popping passage in one of the letters! This was great fun!

After a long time, we heard sirens. They got louder and louder. It sounded like they were right outside. Then it dawned on us -- they WERE right outside! We put out the cigarettes and hustled down the wooden stairs, leaving the letters strewn about on the attic floor. Our next door neighbor had seen smoke billowing out from the eaves of the garage and had called the fire department!

George and I got a whipping for smoking. Part of the paddling probably was due to the embarrassment Mom and Dad felt for having had their privacy violated. The letters disappeared. The attic became off-limits. I got paddled harder for having been the older brother and the chief instigator of this summer escapade.

I didn't get much of an education from the letters, since not much of it made much sense to me. I was, for my age, pretty naive, I guess. George was even more so. And yet, as I looked back on that event over the years that followed, it gave me a little peek into things that had always been a mystery to me...about love and about the intensity of feelings that my Dad had for my Mom at a time when they were both very young and so full of young love. It gave me a little bit of perspective, because my parents were very private people, and a lot about life and love was kept very private. Kids my age at that time were largely responsible for their own education about this mysterious thing called love.

Although we didn't much care for the paddling we both received, and though that event is over a half-century in the past, the memory at this point in my life is a sweet memory. We were just two kids -- bored on a hot summer day -- who were having fun...when we got 'busted six ways from Sunday.'

A selfless act of bravery

2008-12-05T06:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, it wasn't an act of bravery in the same league as, say, pulling people out of burning buildings, or saving little animals found wandering around in the middle of an 8-lane highway at rush hour -- yet, bravery by any man's measure of such things should be noted, acknowledged and, yes, even revered. That's why I privately thump my chest and step up to the plate to admit, with just a tiny, (for modesty's sake) uncharacteristic reticency, at my own recent act of extreme bravery. Night before last, I volunteered to go shopping -- for clothes -- with Paula and Gena. No, there were no other men present, at least at first. No others willing to throw all caution to the winds and forsake all personal safety, to do what obviously needed to be done.

We chose an early hour -- something before 9 p.m., as I recall. The parking lot was deceptively uncrowded, and this failed to explain the teeming thousands of female shoppers found inside. I knew I was in trouble when, trailing Paula and Gena into the store, I was hit with a wall of scent -- perfume, scented oils, powder -- all of the unmistakable signs of vast numbers of female shoppers. Paula and Gena boldly and with no hesitation, waded right into the ocean of women. Being of sound mind, and having no wish to be instantly transported into Eternity, I wisely held back, looking for some small break in the phalanx of winter-clad bodies, churning up and down the aisles, with wild-eyed looks of determination and desperation in their faces. Seeing no such opportunity, I removed a scantily-clad female manikin from her perch on a display, and, climbing to the top-most portion of the display, dove headfirst into the mass of women shoppers, holding the manikin out in front of me for protection. (Side note: The manikin was wearing a cute little powder blue outfit of lingerie that I'll have to remember to buy for Paula. The manikin looked positively fetching as she and I sailed out across the army of women shoppers).

Oblivious to my forced entry into the lanes of frothing humanity -- all looking for the bargain of the day (and all carrying their little 15% off card in their hands as though they were clutching a gift-card for Heaven itself)-- I was swept along in the throng.

Having trouble breathing, due to all of the powder and perfume, and deafened by the roar of shrill chatter of thousands of lady shoppers, I frantically looked for a safe harbor -- somewhere in the hardware department. I shouted at one lady after another, "excuse me, ma'am, but where do they sell the power tools?" Receiving no response to my questions, I shuffled along with the crowd, and hoped that, with all the close-quarter contact, I was not losing my car keys, wallet, pens, knife, and 'black gadgets' (as Gena calls them) that I always carry around when I'm in public. Little kids carry toy trucks -- real men carry cell phones, P.D.A.'s, and lots of other important stuff.

Finally, seeing Paula and Gena again after what seemed like hours of shuffling up and down the aisles with the 'bargain sharks', I somehow broke free of the frenzied mob and sought refuge with the two women I recognized and trusted. They moved with the calm assurance I would have expected to see of Clint Eastwood, in some rough neighborhood in a Dirty Harry movie. They clearly knew what they were doing. They rifled through row after row of hanging garments, spending no more than 1/10th of a nanosecond on each one-- in their zeal to look at each of the 10,000,000 garments in each department. They moved with a blur -- a facility of movement only found in women. Their hands moved so fast they appeared to not really move the hangers at all, but just to pass over them, palms down, as though they were imparting some kind of mystical blessing on the clothes as they passed over them. I stayed close behind them, fearing that if I didn't, that I would once again be swept up in the crowd of shriekers, gigglers and frothers.

Later that evening, I ran into Mark Henderson. Mark, like I, appeared disheveled and weary. He, too, had done the manly thing -- the right thing -- and had thrown caution to the winds and forsaken all self-interest. He, too, had gone shopping with his wife. He and I both looked like we had been there for days. We were wandering about, in the thinning crowds, at this late hour, looking for some display where we could shove some manikins out of the way and sit down for a moment or two. No luck. No hardware department, where Mark and I could have shopped and felt comfort amid the saws, grinders, power blowers -- stuff with real substance and heft! A place with black gadgets galore! That would have been nice....that and a couple of easy chairs and a big screen t.v. With those amenities, and and a snack bar and we could have done the shopping thing all night.

Much later, somewhere around midnight, we found our wives and two fork lifts to get their planned purchases to a cash register. The 'beep, beep, beep', of the fork lifts, heading to the front of the store, told Mark and I that our ordeal was almost over. Now, we stood in line at the register (we used to call them cash registers, but that term is out of date, since no one uses cash anymore -- I now call them 'wealth extractors'). Mark and I each stood dutifully by our women, while women commented on each others' purchases: "Isn't this little doo-lolly the most preciooooouuuuss thing you have ever seen?"...."I just loooovvvve the cross-stitched, basted, ruffled, little thing-a-ma-jig...it's just the frilliest ever!!!" ....and lots of other things that I heard but can't spell or remember. That wealth-extractor business went on for another half-hour, and, to get out of there, I would gladly have given up to half my kingdom...or more.

Mark and I survived, and we both expect to be ensconced in some male Hall of Fame for having braved an 'after Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas midnight madness sale' with half of the women in Edmond.

We never found the hardware department, but, that's not uncommon, I hear. A good number of my male friends have also never found the power tools or a 'rest station' at Kohls. Maybe next year...

Final note:
As we were leaving the store, the lady who was manning the 'cash extractor' asked me if I would mind returning the little manikin (with the tiny blue outfit made for fun and games). "Oh...sorry," I said. In all the excitement and frenzy, I forgot that I was still clinging to her. I returned her to her station, straightened her hair and re-arranged her little outfit and we all went home -- with our vehicle straining under the weight of 'ALL THE MONEY WE SAVED.'

A fish story

2008-11-23T09:25:00.000-08:00

Born on Galveston Island, ten years in Houston, followed by another couple of years in Galveston -- then another three years in La Marque, then another year and a half years as a young man in Clute,Freeport and Lake Jackson, TX (right on the Gulf coast), I was around fish and fishermen a lot.

When I lived in La Marque, with my parents, my dad would occasionally go shrimping, and would return home with a couple of washtubs full of prawns. For those of you who do not 'fathom' (pun), prawns are larger than life shrimp! They are shrimp on steroids---huge, unlike the tiny, frail, sissy 'pinkie-finger' size cocktail shrimp you may be more familiar with, from your bold forays into deep sea fishing at the lobster tank at the Dead Lobster! We would carry the washtubs way back toward the back of our property, where the spare parts from shrimp that we would clean would not stink up the rest of our yard. Turning on the garden hose, dad and I and my brother George would de-vein shrimp for hours, then wash the prawns, drain the excess water and deliver them indoors to my Mom, who had all four burners going on the stove, boiling the prawns on three burners and deep-frying them on the other burner. She made huge containers of cocktail sauce, with lots of horseradish, and we would eat shrimp till we staggered! They were so, so wonderful! We ate them with French fries, cornbread, cole slaw, downing them with iced tea with lemon! The boiled shrimp were carefully drained and we then packed them into round white cardboard containers meant for ice cream. We filled our freezer in the garage with a couple hundred pounds of fresh shrimp, and they would last us until the next year.

Although I was around fish a lot while living on the coast, I never learned to fish. When I arrived at OCC, in the fall of 1964, I eventually --around 1967--became friends with my life-long buddy, Phil Johnson, who knew how to fish. Somewhere around 1968 or 1969, he volunteered to teach me the 'secrets' of successful fishing. Off we went to a local TG&Y store, then located at 15th and Broadway, in Edmond. They had a large quantity of fishing gear....one of everything ever made, it seemed. I was lost. I didn't know one thing about fishing.

The only fishing I had ever done, as a teenager, in the swampy areas around Texas City, Texas, next door to our hometown of La Marque, was flounder-gigging, at night, in the marshy areas, full of jackrabbits, snakes and, yes, flounder! This peculiar fish is flat. Its two eyes are on the top side of the flat fish, and the two eyes, and a faint outline of part of the fish are all that one can see when wading around in the marsh grass, with a flounder gig and a good Coleman lantern. The marsh grasses attract rabbits as well as frogs and the snakes are drawn to the frogs. There is an abundance of snakes in the marshes on the Gulf Coast -- cottonmouths, rattlesnakes, copper heads and coral snakes....all of them eagerly available to facilitate your speedy trips to the ER, if you are not cautious! I did okay with floundering. It's not rocket science. One just has to be careful -- and determined. Flounder-gigging was as close to fishing as I ever got, while growing up. With real fishing, however, I floundered badly!

Back to my buddy, Phil Johnson: He patiently walked me through the fishing gear area of the TG&Y store, and I walked out, some two hours later, with $140 worth of fishing gear...not fancy gear by a real fisherman's standards, but, to a novice, it was a real adventure. Understand, however, this was no Bass Pro Shop. I had lures and fishing line, a cheap rod and reel, waders and one of those fancy inner tubes with pockets to store your gear while you set forth across a farm pond on a mission to bring home the really big ones!

My entrance into the world of fishing was to go with Phil down to 'Vaughn's pond' -- a weed-filled pond full of runoff from the OCC campus. Battery acid and oil, along with fertilizer and pesticides and who knows what else -- made its way down to its eternal destination, into fish that resided in Vaughn's pond.

Phil showed me how to cast. I was dying to try my hand with an irresistible lure, then called 'The HULA POPPER'. It was bright yellow and was named after the hula skirt-looking device that modestly covered the business end of the lure. Man, that lure looked deadly! Before casting it into the pond, I was already envisioning one meal after another, from the huge, healthy fish I would soon be fairly ripping out of the water with my yellow Hula Popper! Wow! Does life get any better than this?
This is probably better than....well, no, not that good, I don't think, but still, very, very good!

The water in Vaughn's pond was murky, and filled with all sorts of sea-weedy things that looked, when one snagged them on a lure and reeled them in --- like great, long gobs of yellow-green cooked spinach. This pond spinach did NOT smell like spinach, however, or any other edible thing. I was a little wary of the pond, because, during my first year at OCC, 1964 to 1965, one of my roommates, a nice, but quiet guy who lived upstairs on the east end of "A" dorm, ran down to the pond one blistering hot day and plunged right into the pond. He drowned, after suffering a heart attack, if memory serves me correctly. Afterwards, I always shuddered a little when I thought of that pond. And now, here we are, tempting fate by venturing into those murderous waters, filled with who-knows how many dangers?

As soon as I cast my line, the Hula Popper landed with a splash and I began reeling it in. In my mind I was transferring images of a wounded bug, seductively scooting across the surface of the pond, in fits and starts -- sudden bursts of movement, followed by short periods of rest. Surely this is what a wounded bug would look and act like! Right? Wrong!

What happened was this: the entire surface of the pond erupted in bubbles! I was puzzled, as this scenario was repeated over and over, while my buddy, Phil, reeled them in, with a smug, self-satisfied look on his face. I finally gave up and just contented myself with 'organizing' my fishing tackle box. I was no good at fishing, and, to make matters worse, I had fouled my line on all the submerged tree limbs and pond spinach. I lost my best lure, the bright yellow Hula Popper, and a couple of other fake-bug-baits, but, by golly, I had an organized tackle box! Second to none! I had hooks from tiny little things that probably wouldn't have snagged a minnow, to monster hooks that would have made the Loch Ness monster become a vegetarian! I had bobbers and lures and lead weights and spinners and fish scalers -- even a fish scale. I even had a stringer to keep my trophy fish all tethered together in a sort of fishy chain gang, while still remaining in the water where they would remain alive and fresh until I took them out to prepare dinner! I had it all! Eventually, I thought, with patience and good observational skills, I too would master the manly art of fishing! I could imagine the newspaper articles, with photos, showing the world-record fish being pulled from the pond while I posed, straining under the weight of so many fish, wearing a decidedly 'no-big-deal-I've-done-this-a-thousand-times' look! Ahhh! Life was indeed sweet! And about to be even sweeter!

I went fishing with Phil several more times, and each time I tried my luck with one of my so-called 'tried and true' baits, I was again greeted with a pond-wide eruption of bubbles. In desperation I hired an icthiologist (fish expert) from NOAA (National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration)-- a nice man named, Gill, I believe, who witnessed the extremely unusual event at Vaughn's pond when I took him there as a scientific observer. He saw the event with his own eyes and took measurements and samples of the bubbles every time I cast my lure into the water. He was very knowledgeable, exhibiting a vast experience. It did appear to me, however, that with his constant recitation of facts and figures, that he was fishing, as it were, for compliments. His conclusion, after days of testing and computer simulations, was that the curious phenomena -- which he had never seen in all his years as a trained icthiologist-- is that the air bubbles were caused by....mass, simultaneous laughter, among all the various species of fish in the ponds where I had attempted to fish. He advised me to discontinue my attempts at fishing, since the disharmony and wild 'waves' --gales, if you will, of unrestrained laughter among the fish population in these ponds would lead to a decimation of the fish population, as fish would 'scale back' (pardon the pun) --eating and reproductive activities as they eagerly anticipated the next hilarious casting of my line and lure into their watery world. He was not happy with the sight of exhausted fish floating on the surface of the water, near-dead from long and repeated peals of laughter. He further told me that, if I were not compliant in this firm request, that I would be issued a 'cease and defished' order by the local authorities.

I hope that by now I have 'reeled YOU in' with my deceit! While it is true that I am an incompetent fisherman, and have accepted this fact, I will continue to 'cast about', looking for other leisure activities. I am looking for a new diversion, one that will, hopefully, be a 'reel' winner for me and will keep me on the line-- at least as long as I have kept YOU perched on the line!

Please forgive me for the 'bait and switch' story....and the awful puns! As bad as they are, they are, after all, 'trout and true' ('tried and true', maybe?)...and people fall for them every time....hook, line and stinker! :)

Keepin' in touch...with the ONE!

2008-11-07T20:28:00.000-08:00

Want to know a great way to keep in touch...with your Creator?...when you occasionally feel a little bit strung out with a problem or with your job or some other matter that weighs 'heavy on your heart?' Here's are a couple of crazy, but, for me, sure-fire ways to bring things once more into sharp focus. I have two ways...

I am an atronomy buff, and nothing puts my troubles into perspective better than to read something new -- usually on the Internet -- about something new and wonderful and vast and beautiful--something that defies our ability to get our arms around it due to the unbelievable distances...and sizes and complexity...of an 'other worldly' galaxy or cluster of galaxies, billions of light years from earth. The same God who put all of that together such a long time ago, long before we had the ability to even gaze on it -- that same God did it that we might see it and realize what a great God He is. That we might look at it and KNOW that HE IS, and WAS and EVER WILL BE! Astronomy calms me and humbles me and fills me with awe at HIS GREATNESS, HIS MAJESTY, HIS POWER, HIS BEAUTY, and HIS LOVE FOR US!

From the vastness of the universe, to the unbelievably tiny and perfect -- all things sublime!

I sometimes like to stop, along a country road, usually east of Edmond, where there are rock outcroppings. I like to take my 20X power magnifying glass, and get down low over the rocks -- sometimes flat on the rocks -- and look for the tiniest living thing I can find. A tiny plant-- so tiny that I can't even see it without the magnifying glass. I realize, when I do this, that I am the only human likely to ever have seen this little plant, growing on this inhospitable rock. No one else is likely to ever see this one little plant again, and yet, as tiny as it is, and as anonymously as it lives out its brief life, it was made by a God who designed it and put together its inner workings. A tiny life form, brimming with chemical interactions that baffle the scientists of the world, who, with all of their knowledge, money and scientific equipment and skills, cannot make such a thing, tiny and uncomplicated as it at first appears. Only God can make such a thing.

I shudder with awe, even at the age of 64, at a God who can make a universe, some 15 billion light years across (as far as we can 'see' right now). I laugh -- out of sheer wonder and admiration and delight -- at a God who creates tiny things that weird people like me seek out, to further confirm the fact that this same God who created billions of galaxies like our own Milky Way galaxy--that houses billions of stars and likely untold numbers of planets, also constructs tiny living things of beauty for us to enjoy, often too tiny to be seen with the naked eye! Tiny life forms that have their own rhythms of life, and seasons where they come and go, on God's perfect schedule. As we enjoy His creations, and revel in their complexity and the beauty of their design, we simultaneously give HIM all the glory and all our love for these gifts to humanity. In these moments, my troubles melt away and I reflect on an even more unbelievable gift He left us...

The physicists of the world go on and on about their ideas of a 'singularity'...(the initial state of what became God's Universe before that imaginary event they call the BIG BANG). I reflect on the Singularity of MY world...not an imaginary singularity, but a reality--that being my Lord Jesus Christ...WHO Was, and IS, and EVER WILL BE. The realization of the eternal existence of that true Singularity is what calms my heart, gives me hope and makes my life worth living.

Our God...is truly..an AWESOME GOD!

You're being watched!

2008-11-07T18:06:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school in La Marque, Texas, in 1960, I had a job at a local supermarket. It was located a little less than a mile from our home and only a few blocks away from the high school where I attended. I worked, stocking shelves, mopping floors, breaking down cardboard boxes (that were then compacted, bundled and trucked away). I also worked as a bag-boy, and since I hustled and was friendly to the stores' customers and remembered peoples' names and their vehicles, I made a lot of money in tips! It was a great job. I had no need for spending money, since I worked all the time, it seemed. I only rarely went out with a few friends from the La Marque church of Christ Wednesday and Sunday nights for a hamburger or a coke. Because of this, I had plenty of money to buy our families' groceries. Just like it had been at an earlier time when I had a paper route in Dallas, it felt really good to be a contributing member of our family, and not just another mouth to feed. I always enjoyed being a giver, not just a taker. It felt great! I loved it-- and felt needed and appreciated and vital to our family's well-being.

Over time, I became known at the grocery store as someone who was honest and dependable. I was given a tougher job, and I felt a little (no, make that a LOT) like a detective, or a private eye! Theft was a big problem at Evans Grocery--theft-- and there was a need for 'surveillance' of the customers and even a few of the employees. There was a catwalk around the store, up high around the perimeter of the interior of the store. There were one-way mirrors every few feet, and my job, after my 'promotion', was to walk the catwalk for my entire shift each day, back and forth, all around the store, watching customers. It was a lonely job. I was up there, in the semi-darkened corridor all day each day. It wasn't hard work, although it required a lot of walking.

It was surprising to me how many people were shoplifters. The thieves who frequented Evans Grocery Store were from all races, all ages and included men and women, boys and girls. The items stolen ranged from needles and thread to large packaged hams! I saw many items disappear into pockets and purses, shirts and blouses...even into socks and hats!

Most of the shoplifters were easily 'profiled', as they would look around, tentative about their intentions. Their body language, however, was, after a short time on the job, easy for me to predict. They gave it away, by their demeanor. They 'telegraphed their intentions.' Most of them didn't have the presence of mind to act naturally. If they had acted naturally, most would have gotten away with theft, unless randomly chosen as someone of interest to watch.

My job was to watch-- to 'catch people in the act', follow them to the front of the store, without losing sight of them (so they didn't return the items to the store shelves and make the store guilty of falsely accusing them). I would then then press a button to alert the store manager, so he could head toward the front doors while I hurriedly came down the stairs to join him at the front door and point out the shoplifter.

I enjoyed this job, a lot, even though I had to do it alone, up on the catwalk. I could see the customers but they couldn't see me. I became very good at this work, and did not make mistakes. My 'busts' were 'righteous busts', and I didn't get the store manager into trouble by falsely accusing people. Not one time.

The ones who really surprised me were the old people -- men and women, who looked like anybody's little old grandma or grandpa. Some of them had the sweetest countenances. Often the items stolen were not expensive items, but were items most easily concealed. Sometimes, before an item was snatched, the thief would make 'dry runs', looking at the items and then circling back, like a shark, before committing himself or herself to the act of theft.

The biggest 'bust' of my career in surveillance at Evans Grocery was a huge woman of indeterminate race, who waddled behind her grocery cart, right into the stockroom where there were public bathrooms. I made a mental note of the items in her basket, which included a large packaged ham. When she went into the stockroom area, I watched her disappear into the ladies' bathroom-- with the ham. Why would someone take a packaged ham into a dirty bathroom, if theft was not on the agenda? When she came out, she was not carrying the ham. She waddled back out of the stockroom area with her basket, heading for the front door. I flew down the stairs and then checked the ladies bathroom. No ham! I then ran to the front door, pausing to alert the manager. He and I walked to the front door, keeping an eye on our
'HAM-STER'.

She checked out at Mrs. Meisetschlager's cash register and headed for the front door. The manager took over, since I was just a kid, and not about to confront the woman. Besides, she was four times my size! A real whopper! She could've cleaned my plow!

The manager had to wait until she left the store to accost her. When he did, she became indignant, and took a swing at him with her purse. When she did, the ham fell from her skirt to the pavement! That was unbelievable! That ham was the size of a 8 or 9-lb. baby and it skidded a little on the concrete when it hit. She had held that ham between her massive thighs from the back of the store to the front door! The police came for that lady, and we all went back to work. We made a lot of ham jokes for a long time after that colorful event! I'll never forget it!

I didn't feel bad for her, since she was so angry at having been accused of theft. With some of the others who were caught, I felt bad, because they looked poor, or like they couldn't help themselves. I nearly always felt bad when it was a very young or very old person.

I had this cushy job until I was a senior in high school, in the fall of 1961, when Hurricane Carla wiped us out and we moved to Dallas. I learned a good bit about human nature in that job, and I learned how to excel at something through diligence and careful observation.

In today's world, we are all subject to scrutiny, if not in a manner quite as direct. Our comings and goings are scrutinized by electronic devices -- in stores, at toll gates, via our credit card purchases and the GPS devices in our automobiles...not to mention our buddies the IRS! People we do not know and never will know, have access to our medical records, the choices we make in our purchases or entertainment, our banking records and much more. It's a scary time we live in. How can we protect ourselves? These days you don't have to spiriting a ham from a grocery store to be under surveillance!

Just like out of a Hollywood script!

2008-11-02T12:06:00.000-08:00

Tenth grade at LaMarque High School, just outside Galveston, TX., was not an especially fun time for me. I was 6 ft. tall and 145, and I got picked on pretty regularly...by a number of people who maybe just didn't like my looks. I was gawky and had, as I admitted to in an earlier blog, a ferocious set of buck teeth. I looked funny... squirrelly. I didn't have a girl friend, and except for a handful of friends from church, I was sort of a misfit.

One day, on a Monday morning, I arrived a little bit early for my first class of the day -- shop class. I had been making a mahogany bookcase -- it was nothing to write home about, but I was proud of it. I still have it. I won a first place ribbon at the Industrial Arts Fair, and was more proud of the ribbon than I was of the bookcase.

On this particular Monday morning, some of the guys in the class whose projects were further along than my own project, had left their wooden creations in the well-ventilated room where things were lacquered and left to dry. Someone had broken in over the weekend and had defaced a lot of the projects in this 'finishing room.'

The shop teacher, Burl Clayton, had not yet arrived, and, since my project had not been in the finishing room and had therefore not been vandalized, I was running some of my mahogany lumber over a machine called a jointer, which smoothes and cleans up the edges of wood boards. I am normally left-handed, and, as I was running the wood from my right to my left, holding the wood safely with both hands with a huge push-block(to keep hands and fingers away from spinning blades), I caught movement coming from my left.

It seems that some of the guys were sitting on tables in the finishing room, which was located near the entrance to the shop room. A hot-headed guy had come into the building and had gone to the finishing room to see his project. It had been gouged with a sharp instrument and was ruined. He flew into a rage and wanted to know who had done it. One of the guys who was sitting on one of the benches,looking around for someone to deflect the hothead's temper, piped up with: "Shoemake did it!" The other guys, seing the possibility of a fight, chimed right in: "Yeah, Shoemake did it."

The hot-head looked around and saw me working on the jointer, across the room. He grabbed a half-finished baseball bat and ran at me across the room, weaving among the work tables as he headed toward the open area. I caught side of him as he ran directly at me, with the baseball bat cocked over his right shoulder. He had rage in his eyes and on his face as he started swinging the bat directly at my head! In a self-protective reflex, I jerked the push block up with my left hand, to try and block the bat. He swung the bat and my push block caught the bat, not far from where his hands gripped the bat. Almost simultaneously, he slammed into me. The bat was leveraged from his grip, due to the push block's point of impact with the bat. As he plowed into me, and we both flew backward, I did something -- without having time to think about it -- that might have saved my life. At the very least it changed my life at that school!

As we flew backwards, I grabbed onto his shirt collar with my right hand. We were falling, with me about to be on the bottom of the pile! I pushed my right leg up and into him, not wanting to have him solidly on me. What happened next was pure luck --- a serendipity---something that could have been scripted for a movie.

As I held his shirt and then pushed outward with my leg into his body, I hit the concrete floor on my back. An amazing thing happened! He was catapulted over me as I hit the floor. He continued on -- now upside down --- and slammed into the wall behind us. He fell from the wall onto his head and was knocked out cold! I thought he was dead!

Although I knew nothing at all about self-defense in the tenth grade, and did nothing 'on purpose' to protect myself other than just react to a threat, like anyone would do, the guys who had seen what had happened, told the story all over school. In one day, I went from the skinny kid with buck teeth that the high school jocks loved to pick on and taunt, to the kid that nobody wanted to mess with! I was, in one day, thought to be 'BAD'...and that was GOOD...REALLY GOOD! I had no knowledge about protecting myself, but, as long as no one else knew that, I guess that was okay. Life got easier after that day in shop class. My attacker got in trouble, but I didn't, since I was on the receiving end of the trouble.

After that chance event, I decided to take self-defense training. Over several years, I learned a lot of helpful things -- among them, how to take a fall. That later saved my life, when I fell through the window at OCC years later. When you practice something for a long, long time, whatever you have learned can become a reflex---something you may be able to do without thinking about it.

It's often seemed odd to me how a chance occurrence can change ones' life....again, just like in a Hollywood script!

OCC's 1964 Freshman bonfire and my Jeep

2008-10-31T19:44:00.000-07:00

I transferred to OCC from Fort Worth Christian in 1964. That Fall OCC still had, as a Homecoming Activity, something known as the 'Freshman Bonfire'. All types of wood and other flammable objects were brought together, on the North side of the Learning Center. It was a good opportunity for people to get rid of all kinds of combustible objects...including wood. Guys risked their lives, stacking telephone poles, old furniture, cross-ties and other objects, in their attempt to build the biggest of allbonfires.

The bonfire was guarded a good bit of the time -- for good reason. More about that later...

A little background info:
I transferred in as a junior, and I had a vehicle..of sorts. It was an old jeep, made of parts of a Willys jeep and a Ford jeep. It looked like the old proverbial 'camel put together by committee'. It looked awful. It had no sides, so it was strictly an open-air vehicle. It also had no paint, except in places where I had not sanded and primed the metal. A lot of the metal was rusted. It was not a pretty thing, but it WAS fairly dependable. The carburetor was not made for the vehicle, so the air cleaner and filter would not fit under the hood. I had to improvise an air filter out of a pair of pantyhose, held on top of the carburetor with a hose clamp to try to keep dust and dirt out of the carburetor. It was a fun vehicle, though, and both boys and girls liked riding around town in my little jeep! The jeep was so unattractive it was cute!

When I took girls out for dates in the fall, winter and spring, I had to bring blankets to wrap them up so they wouldn't freeze! Now, back to the bonfire! One day, when the bonfire-to-be was left unguarded, some guys and I took my jeep and raided the bonfire materials before they were erected. We hooked a cable around the telephone poles that were going to be the corners of the bonfire. Having secured the cable to the jeep, we took off! To the west of the campus, before the days of sewer service for the campus, there was this thing that the uninformed called a 'pond.' A more accurate but ominous description would have nailed it perfectly -- a 'sewage lagoon'. We drove around the earthen embankments that surrounded the lagoon, dragging the telephone poles behind the jeep. We couln't believe our good fortune! We had stolen the freshman bonfire telephone pole supports and had gotten away without getting caught!

As I whipped around the top of the retaining wall, the telephone poles followed dutifully behind the jeep, rolling and rolling, twisting the cable and mowing down the grass and weeds. The guys who were with me unhooked the cable and with great effort we threw the telephone poles into the lagoon. It was not a pretty sight. The telephone poles floated like basking sea lions in the sewage. We were elated! We couldn't quit laughing! We went back to campus and by now, at the site of the bonfire-to-be there was outrage among the freshmen over the disappearance of their coveted telephone poles. Without the telephone poles, there would be no grand bonfire! Eventually we were found out (maybe because we were all rolling on the ground, red-faced from laughing).

The freshmen had no way to get the telephone poles back to campus. We decided that the prank had been fun but that we had to help them out, so back to the lagoon we all went. The freshmen, brave souls that they were, waded out into the lagoon to secure their telephone poles. At the time, I thought that they exhibited unbelievable valor! There was no way that any of us upperclassmen would have waded into that lake of sludge and floating 'cookies.' We secured the other end of the cable to the jeep again and headed off for campus, going south on Eastern and then uphill on Memorial Road. The telephone poles were on pavement this time, and dragging on the pavement, they caught fire, and were smoking pretty good by the time we got them back to campus. No harm was done. Nobody got hurt. We all had great fun at the expense of the freshmen. The freshmen had to bathe...and bathe...and bathe (and, who knows--they may have had to burn some clothes). The bonfire happened without further incident. The sad looking little jeep got to have its 15 minutes of fame.

Later that year, the little jeep got to perform again when I took eight OCC girls down to Denison, Texas for the weekend. We didn't all fit in the jeep, and the jeep wouldn't go faster than 45 mph down old highway 77, but we were a funny sight, with legs hanging out on all sides as we went down the highway! We looked like a spider on wheels! Cheryl McKee, a wonderful OCC girl who went on to be Homecoming Queen the next year, provided two of my jeep's legs during that trip! Cheryl lived in Denison, Texas and she hosted the girls' visit. We all had a great weekend, but, on the return trip to OCC, it became bitter cold. I had to drive, so different girls took turns holding their hands over my ears so I wouldn't freeze while driving. We were NOT prepared for cold weather --not at all! By the time we got to Norman, we were in a blinding snowstorm. Some of the guys from campus came to meet us and take the girls back to campus in their cars...cars with windows, heaters and the works. I came back to OCC from Norman, finally having had about enough of the little Jeep. I needed a real car, with windows and doors -- protection from the elements. Dating, in an open-air jeep, was beginning to lose its allure.

In the spring, I succumbed to the flashy sales presentation of the Southwestern Company, of Nashville, Tennessee. They recruited a large number of us to be Bible salesmen. I needed a car, so I sold the little Jeep and bought a 1959 Chevy Impala, via the unbelievable kindness of Ralph Burcham, who, not really even knowing me, co-signed a bank note for me to buy that car. Years later, when I developed a little bit of common sense, I was embarrassed for having put Ralph on the spot to help me out. He could have refused me. No one would have blamed him. I was an idiot for having asked him. Ralph, however, did what he has done all his life --- he went out on a limb to help someone else out. He trusted me to make the payments on that Chevy Impala. I love Ralph and Gladys..for all they are and all they have been to so many, for their entire lives.

The memories of the Homecoming bonfires, the many trips in the Jeep, the wonderful guys and girls I met while at OCC comprise a lot of the best memories of my life.
Many of the friends from those days at OCC are still best friends -- and, over the years, the memories of those friends and the good times we had, grow sweeter by the year!

'Totally Immobilized....TOTALLY!"

2008-10-30T18:27:00.001-07:00

Okay, this has been 'true confessions week'. I have one more really embarrassing moment from my youthful days. Here it is...

The summer of 1957 was a great summer. I was 12, going on 13. After my paper route -- after supper -- I would often get on my bicycle and ride all over our neighborhood. After I wrecked my old balloon-tired bicycle showing off at school at an earlier time, I got a newer bike. It was maroon, and wasn't an antique. It wasn't expensive, either, but I loved that bike! I became so familiar with that machine, I felt like the bike and I were 'one'. It almost seemed like part of me. I polished that bike and adjusted the spokes and cleaned and oiled it, almost compulsively. I got it with some of my paper route money and unsanctioned candy sales at school, and I spent a lot of time on that bike, exploring my world.

One summer evening, I had been riding all over the neihborhood at breakneck speed, up and down the gently-sloped hills in and around our neighborhood, wearing nothing but a pair of long jeans and a t-shirt. I didn't want to go home -- not yet -- and still, I needed to stop for 30 seconds to relieve myself. If I go home, I thought, Mom will make me come inside for the evening --- take a bath and get ready for bed. So, I pulled into the alley behind our house, and without getting off of the bike, unzipped my jeans and took care of business off of the side of my bike. Then I hurriedly zipped up my jeans and --- OUCH!...I had managed to zip up 'Oscar' in the zipper of my jeans! That really hurt! I was frozen in pain, and yet, I knew I couldn't stay in the alley all night. I tried to free myself from the zipper. I tried and tried, to no avail. The pain was almost unbearable! Then it gradually got dark.

I decided to try to ease back up on the bicycle seat and carefully coast down the alley and around the corner back to our house. Big mistake! As I carefully eased back up onto the seat -- still in terrible pain -- I slowly put my right foot up onto the pedal to give it a tiny push. I pulled my shirt down over my open pants, and then started rolling down the alley toward the street. I no sooner began pedaling than I realized that the cuff on my 'high water' jeans had gotten caught in the sprocket of the bicycle! "OH, GREAT!", I thought. "Now I've done it! I'm stuck here in the alley. I can't pedal and I can't get off of the bike without tearing 'something vital.' " I couldn't move! I WAS TOTALLY IMMOBILIZED! TOTALLY!

I stood there quietly in the alley for a long, long time. I had a vivid imagination, and began to think of all sorts of 'outcomes'...none of them pleasant!

I had mental pictures of people driving down the alley, plowing into the 'paralyzed kid' on his bike! I thought that I might be there all night, until someone could see me the next day. Then I thought of my parents. They will think that I've run away from home when I don't come home tonight. They may call the neighbors or the police and I may be 'discovered' by people with very bright, utterly revealing flashlights! I'll be ruined at school, I thought. How can this be any worse? I know how it can be worse --- what if they have Sylvia Harrell and her Mom and Aunt join in the 'search' and Sylvia finds me? (Sylvia was a young girl from church who was, at that moment of my life, and for years thereafter, the love of my life, as the saying goes). She lived half a block from our home. I would rather have died than for Sylvia or her Mom and Dad to find me in that ridiculous, embarrassing situation in the alley!

Very late that evening, my Mom went outside our home, looking for me. None of the neighborhood kids had not seen me in hours. Mom and Dad were bound to be worried. I didn't know it at the time, but they had gone out looking for me. Dad went one direction and Mom went in another direction, talking with neighbors and calling my name. I heard Mom coming, and I responded with an answering 'yell'. I was both so glad to see her, and yet mortified to have to have my Mom, of all people, help me get 'free' so I could go home. How embarrassing! It took awhile, but eventually, both 'Oscar' and my jeans were free and I went home. Eventually I healed up and the humiliation subsided. Mom didn't tell anyone what happened and I didn't either, for many, many years.

I learned a lot from that episode...but the most important lessons I learned were:
Don't 'whiz' off of a bicycle, put the chain guard back on the bike...and never forget to remember ALL of the kindnesses of parents. They go through SO MUCH in trying to raise their kids!

Gunplay at church - a lie - forgiveness- a life changed

2008-10-29T19:56:00.000-07:00

In 1957, I was 13. I had a paper route in the afternoons after school in Oak Cliff. I had somewhere around 120 papers to deliver every day. The papers were Dallas newspapers, and they were heavy. It was a tough route to walk every day. It was good for me, though. It made me tough. I carried two bags of papers -- one over each shoulder. I walked for a couple of miles, delivering those papers. Delivering papers was a way I could contribute to the 'Shoemake family income.' I helped buy groceries with my paper route money and never minded doing it one bit. I felt like a real asset to the family. I felt important--I 'contributed' and that's a good thing for a kid (then or now!).

I was still an immature kid, however, and once or twice I got into trouble via the afternoon paper route. My papers were delivered each day on the north side of the Sunset church of Christ parking lot, out by the curb on Jefferson Boulevard, just west of Hampton Road. On one particular day, I decided to take my pellet rifle with me. I chose a day when the papers were pretty light, and the added weight of the air rifle was not going to be a burden. While waiting for the papers to arrive by delivery truck, I started plinking at things -- cans and bottles that I found next to the church parking lot. I got bored with those targets and soon spied targets I could not resist! The large floodlight bulbs esconced within metal reflectors, situated high up on the auditorium building of the Sunset church where we were members. I knew it was wrong, but I was a dumb kid, with no sense of the cost of things or the mess that I would make. I was tempted and I gave in to temptation. I began aiming at, and exploding the bulbs. I was having great fun, until Jack Hardcastle, our pulpit minister, drove up and got out of his car.

Mr. Hardcastle asked me if I was the one who was responsible for the glass on the ground under the reflectors on the sides of the building. I was standing there with a pellet rifle. I was the only person for a hundred yards. The glass had barely stopped 'tinkling' on the concrete, and, if this had been a Western film, my rifle barrel would still have been 'smoking' from the firing of the rifle! No, I didn't look guilty...NOT MUCH! A reasoning person, 'caught with the goods', would have instantly confessed to the crime, knowing that it was all over. Instead of doing this, I stood my ground and came out with what I remember as the first whopper I had ever told in my life. I denied what I had done! I LIED!

Mr. Hardcastle was not pleased, but he outwardly expressed his acceptance of my denial as 'the gospel truth'....and he never told my parents! I would have been beat within an inch of my life had he told Mom and Dad. I was ashamed, but kept my conscience in check, and covered up the lie. The guilt in me festered like a boil.

My conscience bothered me for years. In 1964, after having enrolled at Oklahoma Christian College, Jack Hardcastle was on campus, for the OCC Lectureship, if memory serves me correctly. I saw him from a distance and worked my way through the crowd, wanting to talk with him. When I got my chance, I introduced myself to him...hesitantly. He remembered me, and smiled a kind smile -- not the reproving scowl I deserved and half-expected. I told Mr. Hardcastle that in the summer of 1957 when he drove up and saw me with the air rifle and asked me if I had been the one shooting out the flood lights and had denied doing so ---that I WAS the one who had been doing just that! He smiled a forgiving and understanding smile, put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that he had known it all along. He told me that he forgave me for what I had done and had watched me over the years following my 'Sunset shootout', and knew that I had become someone different...someone with 'admirable qualities'. He told me that he knew that I had done things for my family and that he appreciated who I had become -- adding that he had often inquired about me over the years. He told me that he could tell that I was truly sorry, and that now I had to forgive myself.

I walked away from my talk with Mr. Hardcastle, and as I left him I felt like I had been reborn! I had confessed something that had bothered me for years, and had been forgiven. I had never known that kind of forgiveness from my own Dad, who I am sure, loved me and my brother George and my other siblings, but we were never TOLD that we were forgiven...or loved. Forgiveness, or an arm around the shoulder, or kind words were not something that we got from our Dad. We were disciplined, and we were provided for, but what we really wanted and needed was always missing from Dad. I know he meant well, but all four of us kids wished things could have been different.

As a consequence-- in my adult life, I have 'seized' on the qualities I have seen in men whom I have respected. At Fort Worth Christian College (1962 and 1963), I locked in on Elmo Hall, one of my professors. I also homed in on Marshall Keeble, a fiery black minister, who was the best preacher I had ever heard in my life to that point in time. I admired Jimmy Allen, the evangelist.

When I transferred to OCC in the fall of 1964, I again saw and watched Elmo Hall. I saw how he treated his family, and how he treated people with whom he came into contact every day. I saw his compassion, his love of the Lord, and the constancy of his devotion to family and the church. I watched and learned from Ralph Burcham, Mickey Banister and Bailey McBride, in whom I have seen an uncommon kindness and a gentleness of spirit that is magnetic! I found wisdom in all of these men, and a 'composite' of all the things I hold dear, and treasure in godly men. I have never told any of these men what I am sharing with you now, but I will. They need to know what an impact they have had on my life (and the lives of countless others).

People are watching all of us all the time, observing how we treat others...looking to see if we are the 'genuine article.' Lives are being changed all the time by the way we live our lives...by the way we treat people...by our words, our actions...a warm smile, a word of forgiveness or encouragement or a hand around a shoulder. Let's all remember to love each other. Life is over so quickly...each of us has a chance...as well as a responsibility...to be a light in this world.

'Redemption' by candy at Lida Hooe Elementary

2008-10-29T19:16:00.000-07:00

I was in the 6th grade, in Dallas, Texas. We lived four blocks from the Sunset church of Christ in Oak Cliff (when Oak Cliff was still a nice place to live -- before it became a ghetto). One day when dad was at work and Mom had gone somewhere for the day, I thought it would be cool to skip school for a day. With no parental oversight, I had a grand day. Dressed in a pair of summer shorts and a t-shirt -- barefooted and free -- I decided to get on my old-timey-ugly-brown-rusty-no-handle-grips-balloon-tire bicycle and ride back and forth in the street next to the playground of my school---Lida Hooe -- my elementary school on Hampton Road. I knew when my classmates would be out on the playground, right after lunch, and I wanted to taunt my friends and make them feel like they were really missing out on the great fun I was experiencing, skipping school on such a grand day! I wanted them to suffer a little bit after seeing my apparent freedom. I rode grandly back and forth -- up and down the street on the north side of the school building, smiling and waving at my buddies (and hoping the girls were watching). Then I started doing the 'no hands' maneuver, whereby one steers the bicycle, sans hands, weaving from one side to the other like a surfer riding his board.

Suddenly, without any warning at all, the front fender on that old heavy clunker of a bicycle, dropped down over the front tire! The front of the bicycle stopped instantly, since the tire abruptly quit turning and the front of the bike stopped! The rear of the bicycle, however, went into a rear-over-front flip. Naturally, since I was perched up high on that semi-tractor seat, (which had its own set of strong springs), I was propelled over the front of the bicycle and onto the pavement. Just as you might imagine, it was another instance of 'teeth, hair and eyeballs' splattered all over the street. My bare elbows, kneecaps, hands and other body parts slammed into the hard pavement. As if this was not bad enough, the rear end of the bicycle, along with the bicycle seat, then slammed into me. I didn't have handlebars on my old bike, and one of the metal handlebar tubes drove itself into the space between the first and second knuckles on my right hand -- hard enough that I couldn't use that hand for days (and had what appeared to be a reddish blood clot between those two knuckles for years).

I picked my body up off of the pavement, to the laughter of a large number of my classmates and other hecklers, who thought that my nearly getting killed, while showing off in the street, was GREAT FUN!

By now, all my joints were getting into some serious 'synchronized bleeding'. Later on, I got 'busted' by the teachers, for skipping school, and had to stay after school every day for a long time. I also got busted with a belt that night when Dad came home. I wrecked my sole means of transportation, and made myself the laughing stock of Lida Hooe Elementary.

The ridicule went on for a long time, but I finally redeemed myself in the eyes of my classmates when I began furnishing them with a steady supply of cinnamon sticks that I would buy on the way to school (a small store next to a funeral home that I passed while walking to school each day). I loaded up my pants pockets with various articles of purchased contraband that I bought for a nickel or a dime and then re-sold at school, furtively, lest I get caught, for 3 times what I paid for them. My hottest selling item was a cinnamon stick called a 'Fire Stick.' Eventually I quit 'carrying' all the other items and focused on Fire Stick sales. The sticks were 4 or 5 inches long and about twice the thickness of a piece of chewing gum. I could pack a lot of them into my jeans pockets. I started doubling or tripling my money every day, and eventually pocketed some serious money...for a 6th grader!

The candy sales made me a 6th grade hero (others could have done it, but were afraid of getting caught -- or, they had no store in the route they had to take to get to school). I was able to make the embarrassment and ridicule from the bicycle fiasco fade away in time ---and I did it with cinnamon sticks! Redemption by candy at Lida Hooe Elementary!

The first ten years are sometimes the hardest!

2008-10-26T14:35:00.000-07:00

When I was a newborn, my Mom was at the home of her in-laws in Sherman, Texas. She was holding me and she leaned over to latch a screen window in my grandmother's bedroom. As she leaned over, I moved suddenly and she lost her hold on me. I fell into the window, and past the still-unlatched window screen. I landed on the gravel outside the window. My mother and grandmother rushed me off to the hospital, thinking that I had sustained some internal injuries. I was not 'broken', but my Mother lost standing in the eyes of her mother-in-law when the accident happened. She felt like she was not a good mother, at least in the eyes of my grandmother.

I survived that first 'fall', and went on to move, with my parents, and siblings, to Houston, Texas. We lived out on Yale Street -- sort of out in the country -- and we had chickens. When I was two years old, and was chasing chickens one day, I slipped and fell onto an old washtub. The bottom of the washtub had rusted out and had become a sickle-shaped piece of rusted, yet sharp metal. When I fell, that rusted metal went across the top of my head, effectively almost scalping me. Off we went to the hospital. I got sewed up and months later, my thick, curly blond hair didn't betray the horseshoe-shaped sutures beneath. See the pic of me and sister Nancy -- before the chicken-chasing, washtub disaster. The other pic is of me, AFTER the hair came back. (Raegan, your Poppy gave you your pretty, curly hair -- don't ever forget it!).

I didn't want to go to school as a little kid. On the first day of kindergarten, my Mom left me with my kindergarten teacher at the Woodrow Wilson Elementary School in Houston, Texas. I made it through part of the day, but the little girl, Antoinette, who took a nap on a towel next to mine, on the floor, soaked us both while she was asleep! Wet, thoroughly grossed out and embarrassed, I left -- walked right out of the classroom -- out the door -- and went straight home! I didn't care much for school!

I felt pretty good about going home. It was a good decision! I enjoyed the walk. When I got home, however, the novelty left when I got a good paddling --- with Mom's Fuller Brush hairbrush (the good one, with the wooden handle). She marched me right back to school (with dry pants), and I suffered through the rest of the day, looking at the alphabet, trying to duplicate what I saw on the blackboard on my Big Chief tablet, trying to learn the alphabet while taking turns learning to tie shoes on a giant red wooden shoe...and staying WELL AWAY from Antoinette!

The next few years in grade school were better. I fell in love with all of my teachers and not a few of the girls in the classes.

Saturdays saw a bunch of the guys in our neighborhood, going to a local theater for the Saturday matinee, to watch 'shoot-em-ups'. The tickets cost a quarter, and my folks allowed me to do that-- unsupervised, since a bunch of guys all went there together (safety in numbers I guess).

Some of us managed to pick up ring worm at that classy theater. Our school picture showed several of us wearing those flat caps boys wore in those days --you've seen them. Like they wore in 'Little Rascals.' A small brim in front. There we were -- as bald as bald can be. No hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows. We looked like little Martians. I was especially homely looking, as I was sporting a wicked set of Mortimer Snerd buck teeth. To have been 'street legal', I probably should have been wearing a sign, warning people to avoid bumping into me. The teeth I was sporting could have been their undoing. And that's the plain 'tooth!' The teeth, combined with the bald head, capped off by a dorky looking cap from the 1030's, made me a real looker! See the pic above of my 1954 Grade School class. I'm the guy, 2nd row from the top, left of center, with the dark cap. A kid that only a mother could love! My only comfort was that some of the other guys were in the 4th grade and also bald! As bad as this was, it gets worse...

I went to a doctor (of sorts). The standard treatment among the learned physicians back in the 1950's included irradiating peoples' heads when they picked up ringworm! They would lay what looked like heavy truck tire innertubes lined with lead, on our chests and then blast away at our heads with radiation...x-rays!...to kill the ring worms, of course! Our hair, eyebrows and eyelashes grew back, over time, but the humiliation faded away much more slowly.

In June of 1953, when I was 8, and going on 9, the Alco Fireworks plant, near our home in Houston, exploded! My brother, age 6, and I had been taking a nap. I had awakened, and was 'sneaking' out of the room, so my younger brother would not awaken and start following me around again. As I started to leave the room, a monstrous explosion shook our home, knocking me off of my feet. I landed hard on the floor. My brother, George, came flying out of bed, and barely missed being sliced and diced by a large mirror that shattered and sent large shards of glass all over our bedroom floor.

We ran outside and looked around. To the right, past the Baird's Bakery that was located a few blocks away, right next to the River Oaks Shopping Center, we saw a huge fireball -- a gigantic mushroom -- rising into the air. There was a lot of damage in our neighborhood, from broken windows and structural damage to homes, shaken by the explosion. Later we found out that people had died -- a large number of people had been hurt. An automobile ---a Crosley automobile, if memory serves me right -- had been thrown hundreds of yards through the air. The fireworks plant was blown to smithereens. At this time, however, we didn't know that the explosion was caused by the detonation of a fireworks plant. We all thought that we had been attacked by Russia!

We lived in a time, back then, of drills in the schools, to prepare for the possibility of nuclear attacks from the Russians (as though 'duck and cover' would help when ones' city had just been vaporized!). We had regular 'duck and cover' drills at school, and, as kids, had a sense of impending doom, even though we didn't really understand the threat. We didn't get bombed, however, and so life settled down after awhile. In the fall, school started again, and we went back to buying stamps to put into the pages of our little books. When the pages were filled, we got a War Bond! It was the patriotic thing to do back then. We all wanted to support the Korean War effort, although we didn't know where Korea was or why we were at war. We just did what we were asked to do.

Occasionally, Mom would take my brother and I shopping for shoes. They had this nifty device in the stores in the 1950's that was a kid's delight....none other than a small x-ray machine (they called it a fluoroscope...but an x-ray machine is an x-ray machine...no matter what you want to call it). One could stand in front of the device and stick a foot into the opening, and then press a button and see the bones in ones' foot! What a neat toy to allow kids to play with while Mom shopped for shoes! We played with it endlessly....(no wonder most of us who grew up back then are a little 'different' now!). Sometimes my brother or I would stick our hands in the machine and let the other brother look at the bones in our hands as well. Great fun! Playing with x-ray machines! The thing was probably developed by Hitler's henchman, Mengele, to genetically alter all of America's kids!

I made it to age 10, and watched 'Superman' every afternoon after school, at the home of 'Lalo' Reese, my little neighbor who was short and chunky, and, with her chili-bowl haircut, looked a little like a tiny, female Friar Tuck! My, did we love Superman! Her Mom always served us chocolate cookies and Kool-Aid. The Reese's were also more affluent than we were...not only did they have a television, but they had a window air conditioner as well. Rich people! ....Back to Superman...

I had a lot of confidence as a kid, and became convinced that with a proper cape, I, too, could learn to fly like Superman. One afternoon I strapped on a less-than-perfect cape...certainly not flashy like Superman's cape, but one that I was able to craft out of one of Mom's old bed sheets. I got up on top of our garage and then leaped, and soared off into....the ground! I didn't get hurt too badly, other than two sprained ankles, but came close to landing on one of the 54 turtles that I had collected...turtles that roamed all over our backyard during the warmer months.

We stabled our horses at the Post Oak Stables (Dad was a member of the Harris County Sheriff's Mounted Posse -- something he did as a hobby), and the turtles were, I guess, attracted to the bugs that were attracted to all the manure. Mom didn't like the turtles too much. We didn't have a clothes dryer in 1954, and Mom would hang the wash on clotheslines in the backyard. While she was looking up, putting clothespins in the clothes on the clothesline, turtles would clamber over her feet, sometimes almost sending her into orbit! Great fun, I thought!

Speaking of doing laundry, Mom also made our laundry soap. She made it in large basins, out of lye and what else I do not remember. I can still remember Mom grating large pieces of that lye soap, using a cheese grater. I would also grate soap, and the trick, of course, was to not run ones' knuckles over the cheese grater! We used an 'agitating washer', but, I can also remember Mom using a scrub board for some of dad's clothes. That was hard work. Looking back, I don't know how she did it....leaning over the bathtub with a scrub board and her homemade soap, scrubbing dirt out of three boys' jeans and dad's clothes. We had a 'wringer' on the washing machine, and we were given strict instructions to stay away from it. We had heard lots of stories about people getting hair, hands, fingers, arms, and other appendages caught in the wringer. One still hears an occasional reference to someone getting his/her '(blank) caught in the wringer...'.

When I was 10 we went to the Houston zoo. Nice zoo. I ran ahead of my parents and stuck my head between two of the vertical iron bars outside the zoo - bars that were part of the fence decoration at the entrance to the zoo. Bad move. (Why do kids stick their heads between bars?...because they're THERE, of course!). I got my head stuck and all the kings horses and all the kings men couldn't get my head back through the bars. Finally, in desperation, the zoo people called the Houston Fire Department! Here they came, sirens blaring! A small crowd gathered. What a humiliation. If I hadn't been crying so persistently, I probably would have gotten a huge whipping by my Dad for that stunt.

Not long after this, my family and I witnessed the event in Houston that, even today, remains unexplained. All of Houston, TX., saw the event in the sky. I wrote about it in an earlier post. THAT was an amazing day, and I still think of it often and wonder. When you have a minute, read that earlier post, 'You tell ME what they were!'

Not long after, while messing around in our garage, I found dozens of old shotgun shells that belonged to my Dad. I had been experimenting with the rolled caps from my cap guns and the way the gunpowder 'flashes' when one scrapes a sharp object across the top of the caps. I thought: "I know -- I'll open up all of these shotgun shells and collect the powder that it inside them and make a bigger flash!" Another not-so-bright idea. It took hours, but I got all of the shells opened -- collected the powder and then began my experiment. It flashed all right...so big that when it ignited, it blinded me and seriously burned my face, fingers, hands and arms. I had to go to the doctor a lot that summer....it took months to get over that 'experiment.'

In late fall, my neighbor Bobby, who was about 13, decided to dig a 'fox hole' in the vacant lot on the corner of our street. He had his dad's pick-ax...you know, a blade on one side and a sharp pick on the other side. He had been digging for a long time when I showed up with a couple of buddies. I stood on the other side of the hole where Bobby was diging. As he plunged the blade down into the hole, I looked down in the hole to check on the progress. He yanked the pick-ax back up, and it hit me squarely in the center of my forehead. It hurt....oh, yes...it hurt a lot! And then the bleeding started, and I bled like a stuck pig. I was skinny back then and I ran home, with blood coursing down my face, neck and chest. Back to the doctor. Stitches. My forehead was mangled...I looked like a 10-yr. old Charles Manson...without the swastika carved into my forehead. It took years before the scar faded.

Later that year, near Christmas, Bobby, the 'old' 13-yr. old neighbor, was throwing a knife into a chinaberry tree. It was a beautiful knife. It has a fake pearl handle, and the blade was about 4 inches long (maybe a little less...to my eyes back then it looked like a Bowie knife!). He was pretty good at throwing it hard enough and accurately enough for it to usually stick in the tree....usually being the operative word here. I was impressed. He threw it once more and it richocheted off of the tree and embedded itself in my thigh. I took off for home, with the knife moving back and forth as I ran. Mom had to remove the knife and...you guessed it...take me back to the doctor again. More stitches. This time, however, Bobby got the whipping-- from his dad. If I had thought about the pick-ax and the knife and had ever put the two events together, I might have had second thoughts about running around with Bobby.

Right after the end of the year, after my dad's shooting-the-ornaments-off-of-the-Christmas-tree-stunt, with his cousin, Otis, (Matt Gayle's great uncle), the neighbors put their Christmas trees out on the curb for the trash man to collect. Good old Bobby -- our mentor and teacher -- collected the trees and put them in his back yard, in order to construct another, in a series, of ill-fated 'forts'. It was a grand fort, and we set about making the fortifications secure -- against imagined 'foreign invaders'. My brother George, as part of his preparations, brought matches from home -- the big kitchen matches. One day in January, George-- ever one for experimentation -- lit a match and accidentally set the fort on fire! He managed to burn down Bobby's parents' garage and everything in it!

We all got a whipping for that...all of us. Especially Bobby. His Dad nailed his hide to the wall! And come to think of it, George and I each got two whippings for that stunt....a 'two-for-one-stunt'---one from Mom and another from Dad once he got home from work. Mom used her Fuller hair brush (I still have it...broken wooden handle and all).

After the Christmas tree fort fire, one of the neighbor boys (from over the back fence, behind Bobby's house)-- still mad about the whipping he got from his participation in our fort activities--- beat up my brother George one day. I heard George crying, as the boy, 12, and his brother, 11, let my brother have it while George was on their side of the fence. George was only 8 years old, and was trying to climb the fence, to come home, and the boys kept hitting him. I grabbed a brick, climbed up the 'hog-wire' fence, and heaved the brick at the older of the two brothers, to try to make them leave George alone. The brick hit the older boy in the shin and he went down like a 'TON of bricks'. Those boys were never friends again after the brick incident, but they also left George alone.

The next summer, while I was still age 10, George and I were at my grandmothers' home in Sherman, Texas (the site of the cannon incident I told about in an earlier blog). We were across the street, down at the bottom of the bluff, just outside the weeds, in the creek bottom. We were playing with Dad's magnifying glass. It was a big, powerful magnifying glass. You could burn your initials into boards in seconds! George got tired of burning words into wood, and he experimented for a bit with dried weeds. You know where this is going....seconds later, the fire he started was racing up the steep wall of that bluff. From the creek bed to the top of the bluff was about 50 feet. The flames were immense! It was an raging inferno! It was loud! I had never heard a fire make so much noise. The cedar trees along the way went up like Roman candles! The heat created wind, that swept the flames up the side of the bluff. In a few minutes, we heard the fire trucks coming. They finally put the fire out. Two telephone poles were charred. The wires between the poles were 'toast', and had to be replaced. Just like my dad had received a hard whipping for setting a cannon off right over the same place (when he was a young kid, maybe 25 years earlier) where my brother George started a fire, George and I both received a 'belt' whippping (much worse than a hairbrush whipping, since it was administered by Dad, and he hit harder than Mom did).

This pretty well summarizes my first ten years! Most of my early years were filled with wonderful days-- fun times that I remember like they were yesterday. Carefree days of wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else...running like the wind, riding bikes and exploring and pretending. These years were just punctuated every now and then with unusual events --- probably much like your lives have likely been!

Putter pics for interested bloggers!

2008-10-23T20:01:00.000-07:00

Here's what the putter looks like with a printed name in block letters, or a signature.

This is going to be fun! I can't wait for the drawings, late this year! Good luck!

How to get 'comments'...bribe 'em with golf putters, of course!

2008-10-22T20:56:00.000-07:00

I just read my daughter Gena's blog. She's changing her 'address' so her name is not part of the blog name. Good move...I guess. I'm not very technically literate, and I'm too trusting to really understand why that's a good idea, but maybe it has to do with fears of 'identity theft', or a fear of weird guys stalking little children (I can understand that...big time!).

Gena said something funny on her blog tonight...it had to do with her trying to squeeze comments from people who read her blog.....good luck with that one, Gena. Most people like their anonymity, I guess. Part of the fun in blogging, at least for me, is having someone leave a comment. I want to try to 'draw out' some visitors who read my blog but never let me know they've been here. That's kind of like going to a friend's wedding and not signing the guest book....and then slipping out of the church building before the ceremony is over. Right?

I have always wished more people would let me know they've read my blog. That makes it more fun for me, too. I comment a lot on others' blogs, and enjoy doing so. Some people don't want to comment, however, and I understand that...I guess. Stay with me here. I've got an idea!

I'm going to try something FUN! For those of you who don't read blogs without pictures, you can sign off now. This won't have pictures--at least today. Don't get me wrong -- when I was young I wouldn't read things either, if there were no pictures on the pages. Now that my maturity has reached such an advanced level (major grin here), I'm deliberately weeding out the intellectually-challenged readers who rely on visual stimulation along with their printed pages. Such 'mentally dwarfed individuals' will drop out along here somewhere, I'm guessing.

I'm going to save all my 'comments', where people actually identify themselves as having visited my blog. Toward the end of the year, I am going to type out all the names and put them in a container and have a little child stir the names up (Raegan, maybe?), and pull out a few names. The owners of those names will receive a gift! A custom-personalized golf putter. The retail value of the putters will be substantially over $100. I'll share with you the retail value of the clubs later this year, in another blog.

One day soon, I will have the time to post a picture of one of the golf putters on my blog, so you can see it. I will custom-personalize that golf putter with the name of the recipient in block letters or something more cursive, such as Zaph Chancery font, or, should the recipient want me to do so, I will use his/her actual signature and custom-personalize the club with his/her signature!

I make these clubs in a proprietary process that I developed back about 1989. The club head is made of stainless steel, and will be fitted to the recipients' wishes as to length.

A length of 35" is standard for putters. The putters will have a genuine black leather, fur-lined putter cover, with a velcro strap. The personalized area on the club looks like black glass, with the gold lettering appearing to be floating in the cavity of the club, within the 'black glass.' The material is invulnerable to sunlight, and will never pull away from the putter head. It will not fade. It is simply gorgeous! The club is not just a 'pretty face', however. It is a functional club, and has been used by many customers since the late '80's It comes in a right hand model only, at this time.

These clubs are soon to be re-introduced in the U.S. market after a 7 year absence. We produced these clubs for 11 years, and sold them to companies all over the U.S.--companies like Coca Cola, ESPN, AC Delco (a division of GM), American Airlines, all the major oil companies, and so on. Every country western star you are likely familiar with has one of our golf putters -- given to them by Bob Woods, an OKC man who worked with and recorded some of these people -- Vince, Reba, Garth, Roy Clark, George Strait, and lots of others.

These are beautiful clubs, and you can't get them anywhere else! We designed the club heads, and they carry our logo. Our former logo was 'BackNine', and we dropped that after 11 years. Our new logo is 'OneStroke', and we've trademarked that name. You won't ever see our clubs in stores. We haven't and won't -- advertise them. We sell directly to companies, primarily, and they use our clubs as gifts for their best customers-- people who spend a lot of money with them.

We do sell to individuals as well, but the vast majority of our clubs were sold to large companies. We think our internet sales will also, over time, bring in buyers who want that special, unique (redundant?) gift item that can be custom-personalized with a name and a message, and given for birthday, retirement, job advancement, or any of a dozen other reasons. Wait till you see the pics of our clubs on my blog next week. The club will knock your socks off! We sold many, many thousands of them until 7 years ago when we could no longer obtain club heads in the United States. Our U.S. foundries couldn't seem to make metal heads without at least 30% of them having serious flaws. So, with the help of a well-connected friend, we are having them made overseas now. Our first shipment came in two weeks ago. We're having a web site developed and are getting the last few things put together so we can start producing them again. I will get the site up and running and then Paula will take it over -- at least until I retire someday from Premiere Roofing and join her.

This will be a fun experiment. I may or may not draw out the heretofore 'anonymous' visitors to my blog. There's no harm in trying, is there? There's no cost involve, so there's nothing illegal about this. There's no gambling involved (we couldn't have that, could we, Joetta?...a little private family joke here) :)

So, now that we have long ago weeded out the bloggers who have to have 'picture-pages,' you tough, stalwart bloggers who stay with me and identify yourselves when you visit my site, will have a better chance of winning a beautiful golf club for yourself or your significant other! As my Mom would have said: "How 'bout THEM apples?"

" I'm gon' shoot you, man! "

2008-10-18T19:13:00.000-07:00

In the winter of 1983, about February, I'd guess, Paula and I, along with our two kids, Gena,5,and Jeff, 2, had just left the Sunday morning services at the Wilshire church of Christ in OKC. We were heading north on Kelley Ave, and passed an interesting sight -- a very large, tall man, was carrying a huge television from the side of a residence next to Kelley Ave., some fifty feet, out to the street on the side of the house. I said to Paula: 'Can you believe that someone would carry something that heavy so far when he could have parked the car up by the front door and carried it ten feet to the car?' We drove on for another block and then it hit me -- that guy was carrying that television out the side window of that home because he was probably likely stealing the television!

I turned the 1982 Buick LeSabre around in the middle of Kelly and slowly drove back south, in time to see the big man set the television in the back of a car and then, without taking time to tie down the truck lid, get back in the car and head south on Kelley. (Not tie down the trunk lid? Who would do that to a nice television if they were not in the commission of a crime? He's either a criminal or really stupid). The man saw me behind him and he eased his car into a right turn into the Musgrave neighborhood, driving slowly -- nonchalantly. The trunk lid was still bouncing up and down on the t.v. I stayed right behind him as he wound his way through the neighborhood, up one street and down another, gradually picking up speed. The streets wound around and there were vehicles here and there on both sides of the street, and that prevented him from really flying through the neighborhood. That was a good thing. There were also low spots on the pavement, at the intersections where streets met, for water drainage. Those prevented him from racing along too fast.

That's odd, I thought! Why would he do that? He was not really going anywhere...he was circling back toward the house where he had taken the television! As we passed the house for the second time, I looked toward the still-open window on the side of the house and saw the curtains hanging out the window, along with the upper half of a second man, who was watching our two-car 'parade'. Now I knew for sure what was going on: the second man was the accomplice, and he was waiting for his 'ride' to pick him up! At this point, I 'sat down on the horn' and continued following the guy with the television as he hurried up and down the streets to the west, south and north of the home where the television had been stolen. I was determined that the man in the window would not be getting his 'ride!'

You need to understand the sound of the horn on that big, new '82 Buick LeSabre. It sounded like the horn on a big Santa Fe train engine! It was a huge sound. I stayed on the horn, following the guy closely as he became ever more frantic. People in the neighborhood, who had slept in on this beautiful Sunday morning, started coming out of their houses, some in bathrobes, and staring at the spectacle. Some were likely angry at the loud, insistent honking on a quiet Sunday morning. Then I saw a nicely-dressed woman stop in her driveway. She had been to church services somewhere and was arriving home. I stopped and rolled down the window long enough to tell her there was a burglary in progress and asked her to call the police. She said she would.

I resumed the chase. The guy in the car, with the television then left the neighborhood, abandoning his accomplice and heading south on Kelley at a pretty good clip, his trunk lid still slamming repeatedly into the television. He got away, but I had his tag number and description of him and his car that I later shared with the police.

I drove back by the house and saw the other man -- the 'accomplice', hurry out of the front door of the home that the two men had been burglarizing. He headed west on that street, hands in his pockets, like he was heading off for a really fast, Sunday morning stroll. He walked really fast, as though he might have had a really strong case of the 'Tennessee Quick-Step' and was heading home to take care of business! I paced his fast walk, just about twenty feet behind him. He was on the sidewalk and I was close by, heading west in the street, trying to make sure I didn't hit any of the dozens of vehicles parked on the street in front of homes. The man was a very large man -- maybe 6'4", and approximately 230 lbs. His shirt tail was out and he took his hands out of his pockets, to walk faster, I'd guess. He ignored my presence in the street, some twenty feet behind and to his right.

My window was still down, so I spoke to him: "Say, did you see those guys breaking into that home down on the corner?" He replied: "No, man....did you see what they looked like?" To that I had to laugh, as I replied: "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did...I got a good look at the thief who stole the television set....but you must know what he looked like...after all, he's your buddy!" To that comment, the big guy looked directly at me for the first time and said: "I'm gon' shoot you, man!" He reached with his left hand into his left front pants pocket, as though he was reaching for a gun. Thinking that he was bluffing, I quickly said to him: "Go ahead...do what you need to do, but, before you have a chance to shoot us, I'm gonna cut the wheel and run over you!"

His threat was a bluff, and he then took off running down the sidewalk-- pretty fast for a big guy. I continued to pace him, and I could tell that he knew he didn't have enough 'gas' to match the gas in a car, so he then ran between two homes and disappeared. Just about then the police helicopter appeared, followed by two squad cars. I stopped and told the officers what what had happened and they took up the chase. They caught the guy, hiding behind someones' home.

The other guy, the one with the television, was caught the next day, in one of the motels that existed back then, frequented by drug users and prostitutes -- just north of the Oklahoma State Capitol.

I was called to testify in court, and had the pleasure of pointing out the 'bluffer' who threatened to shoot us. He got fifteen years. He was a repeat offender. For some reason, I was not needed to testify in the case of the guy with the car and the television. I guess they caught him with the 'goods'.

The only downside to the adventure was the verbal thrashing I got from Paula, who was sitting in the front seat of our car. I realized that, while helping to catch the 'bad guys', I did a really stupid thing: I endangered the lives of my family by following the guy through the neighborhood (although not at a high rate of speed), and by verbally engaging one of the guys on the sidewalk who threatened to shoot us. Not a very bright thing to do.

I don't remember the sermon at Wilshire that morning. It got eclipsed by the 'action' on the way home from church. God's angels must have been watching over us that day!

Thanks, Arni, for your gift to me!

2008-10-09T20:27:00.000-07:00

In 1968 and 1969, while working for Dow Chemical and healing up from a bunch of surgeries from an accident I had in 1966, I had a friend at Dow named Bill Pryor. He invited me to come over for dinner one night and his wife cooked dinner. After dinner he showed me some beautiful oil paintings that he had painted. I was impressed! I asked Bill if he would show me how to paint. He startled me with: "NO...but I'll show you what materials to buy. If you're truly interested, you'll figure out how to paint. Get a couple of inexpensive books. They'll give you a little direction." So -- right there, that weekend, I became a would-be artist. I stayed with it, and over the next decade, did dozens of seascapes and sunsets in oils. I loved it!

Later on, in 1979, living in Edmond, married for four years, with a baby daughter, Gena Marie, and a baby boy due to be born in January, 1980, I began taking watercolor lessons from Arni Anderson -- (Robin Anderson's dad, and Matt Gayle's father-in-law). As much fun as oils were, painting in watercolors was harder -- more challenging! Arni was (and is) a great teacher. He was patient,kind, and a source of encouragement and inspiration. I am so thankful for his having introduced me to a medium that is difficult to navigate without instruction. Arni encouraged me to go to a few workshops where I saw masters of the watercolor medium, work their magic -- while carrying on conversations with awe-struck students like me!

Now, 29 years after starting lessons with Arni, I'm still hooked on watercolor painting. I can't play the violin like Gena or her Mom (my wife, Paula). I can't sing like Gena's husband, Erick -- but, I can and have found expression through my watercolors. I'll never be an Arni Anderson, but I can paint for my own enjoyment, and that's enough for me.

Arni may not even remember his gift to me, but I will never forget what he shared with me during those lessons that I enjoyed for more than a year. I'll always be grateful that he left me with an ability, to some extent, to express my thoughts in a fun and challenging way.

Here are a couple of watercolors from the 'past'. The scene with the bluebonnets was an early painting that I copied from another artist. Trying to learn by copying is something that was good training. Later on, with a little experience, it is not difficult to imagine scenes that you want to paint, from your own mind. The winter scene is my own creation, and, naturally, producing something that is 'your own' is much more fulfilling.

I signed my name in the barbed wire, so my signature wouldn't ruin the painting. I hope you enjoy them. I hope, too, that if you get into a 'funk' and feel caught in a rut, that you'll consider seeking out someone who can help you 'find yourself' artistically, in one thing or another. Find someone with a passion for what they do best and dive in! Find an 'Arni Anderson.' You've got everything to gain and you'll never be sorry for having done it! Some of my favorite memories of Gena and Jeff, when they were little, was in having them join me in the kitchen for 'watercolor sessions'. Those were sweet times for a Dad to get to enjoy with his kids. I'll never ever forget those days. I also had the privilege of teaching a few friends a little about watercolor painting. My Mom and Dad became painters in the sunset of their lives, due to an 'extension' of Arni's good instruction...I shared what little I knew with them! Mom was good. Dad wanted to be good.

Dad was the eternal optimist. Always one for jumping the gun, so to speak, when Dad decided to become a painter, he immediately went out and had business cards made that said: Jack Shoemake, humorous Western artist! Unbelievable! Business cards!...when he had yet to have his first lesson! Then he went to Triangle A&E in Dallas and bought about a $1,000 of art supplies --- expensive easel, gobs of paints and brushes and this and that. Then he built a studio out behind their home in Dallas. He went into painting full-tilt ---like he did with everything else in his life. He never learned how to paint, but I always was both a little embarrassed by his 'spontaneity'...and yet, somehow, I admired him for his passion for anything he was interestd in.

Mom, in her quiet way, let Dad have all the 'glory' when visitors to their home saw and enjoyed their paintings. She made a big deal of Dad's paintings, and downplayed her own talent. Mom had the real talent. This was just another example of Mom's servant heart...putting others first. I sure miss Mom. I loved Mom and Dad, but I really miss Mom.

I'm rambling here, so I'll close. One more thing and I'm out of here.......

While you're at it, google Rudyard Kipling's poem called L'Envoi...it's probably the most beautiful poem I've ever read. You'll like it too! It touches on the artist in all of us...and it hints at Heaven in a grand way!

Thanks for checking in....

Sweet Bessie Brown...a baptism 'overkill'

2008-10-06T21:09:00.000-07:00

In 1970, or thereabouts, I was at OCC for the 2nd time. I had fallen through the
3rd story of OCC's Learning Center, then dropped out of school for 3 1/2 years for five major surgeries, and then had come back to graduate, at last, with my degree. I was living in the dorm with a character from Denison, TX. named Bill Crabtree.

E.J. Sellars, our dorm dad, came to our room one day, looking for someone -- anyone -- who could help him out. It seemed that the church just east of OKC -- Harrah or Newalla, OK., or some other little town out Hwy. 66, if I remember correctly, needed a preacher for that coming Sunday. I was not a preacher (had never done anything like that in my life), but the sound of $50 caught my attention. (Do I hear an 'AMEN'?). I agreed to do it and then I began looking around for a song leader, since I can't carry a tune in the proverbial bucket. I found a willing helper (I think the church paid him a little money, too). His name was Steve Kelly. He's from Shawnee, OK., and is a cousin to Marilyn Dobson and Debbie Powell. Steve was a lot of fun and a great guy. I thought: 'This will be okay -- we'll get through it, hopefully won't do badly, and we'll make a few bucks on top of it all. (So much for selfless motives!).

The singing went well, since Steve 'knew his stuff''. The sermon was canned, and contrived, and I feel confident in the knowledge that people in the audience suffered greatly. However....

When I finished the sermon and offered the invitation, secretly praying that there would be no 'responses' (you have to understand here that I DIDN'T KNOW THE 'WORDS'), here came a tiny little lady slowly down the aisle toward the front of the little auditorium. She looked 100 to me, since I was 26 years old. She was likely in her mid-70's. She wanted to be baptized! "Oh, boy, what am I going to do now", I thought! I wanted to bolt from the church building!

After taking Bessie's confession of her faith in Jesus Christ, I went like a slave, 'scourged to his dungeon', to quote part of a line from an old poem --'Thanatopsis' by William Cullen Bryant -- to the changing room next to the baptistry. There, with the help of some of the old timers, I got into the rubber suit provided for that purpose. I left my slacks on, not wanting to get down to my tidy whities ---and besides, it was a waterproof rubber suit, right? I also left on my white long-sleeved dress shirt, and just rolled up the sleeves, imagining a scene where I would perform the baptism 'cleanly' and then walk away from it all....intact.

At the moment of truth, I repeated those sweet words -- words that I had heard all my life--and with just a touch-too-much enthusiasm, I laid her back into the water....more than a touch too much, it turned out. An involuntary raising of one of her legs caused one of her feet to breach the surface of the water like a hooked trout...and there followed more than a little snickering from the general direction of the small audience.

To compound matters, when I leaned down to make sure that Bessie and her hair were totally immersed (I had heard tales of elders making people 'do over' a baptism because hair had floated on the surface and I wasn't taking any chances!), I leaned down just a touch too far... O.K., more than a touch. I 'took on water' into my rubber suit, soaking my socks, my pants, my underwear and even the shirt. Unbelievable! How could I have messed up something so simple?

Wading back toward the 'exit' to the baptistry was easy -- the hard part -- after Bessie had left the scene of her (I imagined) near-drowning, was when I tried to walk up the stairs. Rubber suits weigh considerably more when one tries to walk in them--- with water in the legs --- up stairs and out of the water! I thought I'd never get up those stairs! My legs felt like lead. I felt like a beached whale. More snickering.

The weight of the rubber suit was straining the suspender-like straps. I was worried now...what if the suspenders snapped under the weight of so much water? Not a pretty sight to contemplate.

Once back in the 'changing room', which by now I felt more like calling it a 'decompression chamber' -- something like one might find on board a submarine-- I tried to get out of the suit. I had a lot of help. It seemed to me that every old gentleman in the entire congregation had gathered to see the college kid try to get out of that portable aquarium called a rubber suit! There was a lot of water in that suit, and the trick was to get out of the suit without destroying the flooring in the room ... or putting on a show in my wet skivs. It was NOT a pretty sight!

I was soaked. Take a moment and get a visual on this scene: people are waiting to congratulate Bessie. People are also waiting to congratulate the novice-ain't-never-ever-gonna-make-a-preacher' boy, and try to make him feel that he did a 'fine job'. I slipped on my dry shoes and stood up -- then felt the shoes begin filling not-so-slowly with water from the wet pants, shirt, socks and underwear. I shook hands and accepted tentative hugs and pats on the back and nice words from the lingering members of the little church, who, I'm sure, thought that the baptism had made it a wonderful day....sideshow and all. Finally, I sloshed my way out to my car, with Steve Kelly still laughing and trying to assure me that things had gone well! We sloshed our way back to campus, and I got into some dry clothes.

I got over being soaked and embarrassed, and although I never again heard about little Bessie Brown, later on I forgave myself for being such an incompetent preacher. I had been humbled, but Christ had been exalted. All in all, not a bad day!

Rest in peace, sweet Bessie!

Favorite sayings from Mom and Grandmothers

2008-10-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

These are random recollections... have you ever heard of them before? Let me know your favorite family sayings! Please don't just read this and 'walk away'...share yours with us...you MUST have some priceless sayings from your family tree as well. :)

Mom (we called her 'Chief', since Dad teasingly referred to Mom as the 'Chief Cook and Bottle-Washer')...would sometimes say this when really astounded about something: " Well, if that don't beat the hen a-peckin' in blue mud!"

Corny, huh? She would say it sometimes--echoing something that she had heard her grandmother say at times). Mom's grandmother, Angie Shoemake Potts (yes, there were Shoemakes on both sides of the family tree...that's why we're all 'a bubble off plumb!'...or 'a brick short of a load!' ...come to think of it, those are cool sayings too. Heard of them? Come on, now! You've got to share!!!

Mom would say this next one when she had experienced a difficult day. This expresses how she would handle the things that life threw at her:

"I just keep battin' 'em back!"

Another phrase of disbelief or incredulity from Mom:

"Well...I'll swan!" (a form of the word for 'swoon' perhaps? Who knows?).

My personal favorite: When Mom encountered someone a little bit self-righteous who would make a big deal of 'going to church' and never get involved in the needs of those around him/her but would have plenty of tiime for criticizing those who were not 'at the building every time the doors were opened'...here's what Mom would say:

"Shoot!...I'd rather SEE a sermon than HEAR one...ANYDAY!" (Then she would get back to work, doing for others...family, neighbors, friends...whomever needed her help).

O.K., people, I've shared some 'corn' from my family....let's have it! YOU need to share now!

The Incomparable Bobby Murcer

2008-10-04T20:35:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when we attended the Quail Springs church of Christ, my son Jeff asked me to have Bobby Murcer sign a baseball card. I didn't know who Bobby Murcer was, or what he did prior to seeing that baseball card, since I grew up without much of an exposure to sports of any kind, but I sought Bobby out at Quail Springs church and he graciously signed the card and I gave it to Jeff.

Later on, Paula and I ended up in the same Bible Class as Bobby and Kay attended. I didn't really get to know them there either, but, started to get to know them at the annual Christmas class party 'sponsored' by James Cail, the teacher in my favorite Bible class of all time! Our Christmas parties were always a lot of fun -- still are, as we continue to enjoy them year after year.

Bobby and Kay always attended the class Christmas parties, and, over time, Paula and I grew to appreciate and then to love them -- for a lot of reasons, none of which involved baseball or Bobby's fame. I didn't (and still don't) care anything about baseball, but I loved what I saw in Bobby and his lovely wife. Years later, Paula and I discovered a lot about the two of them that we had not previously known.

The day before Bobby found out that he had a brain tumor, all of the old Quail Springs James Cail class members were at a Christmas party at Jack and Georgia Slentz' home. I had enjoyed a few minutes talking with Bobby. He loved to joke and kid good-naturedly and had a quick mind and an easy laugh. He caused everyone to have a great time, with his razor-sharp wit! I had noticed that Bobby seemed really tired that evening and appeared to have a difficult time getting out of a chair that he had been sitting in. A few minutes later, I went to the center of the group to pick and unwrap my 'Dirty Santa' Christmas gift. On the way, Bobby said something funny (at my expense!)to dig me a little bit, and I turned and said to him, with a laugh: "Big words coming from a man too old and weak to get out of his chair."

I had joked good-naturedly with Bobby, not knowing that something was in fact, not right with him that night. I think Bobby might have thought that he was a little tired from his usual strenuous gym workout or a day at golf...something like that.

As I recall, the next day Bobby found out that he had a brain tumor. Bobby fought that cancer bravely, and showed the world what kind of fighter --- what kind of man he was. The world lost a great man-- a legend in the world of sports -- a legend in the world of real men! We loved Bobby and now miss him terribly.

Long before Bobby's cancer made its appearance, Bobby and Kay Murcer showed themselves to Paula and to me, to be uncommonly wonderful people. Let me share a little about being on the receiving end of 'Murcer love.'

Paula found out a few years ago that she had breast cancer. We were devastated, and Bobby and Kay -- now members at Memorial Road church of Christ, and once again, in the same class where Paula and I also attended. They went out of their way to show Paula and me a degree of care and concern unmatched even by some in our own families. As busy as Bobby and Kay always have been, traveling all over the United States on Yankees' business, they both still found time to constantly call Paula and me to inquire about Paula's treatment and her (and my) well-being. They gave us their cell phone numbers and email addresses and encouraged us to call them. They sent emails constantly and sent cards. We were overwhelmed at the love and concern shown toward us by these two wonderful, Christian people. We have never seen anything like the attention they showered on us.

Some time ago, we were enjoying a hamburger at The Flat Tire in Edmond, OK with Bobby and Kay. During the conversation, I told Bobby that for a long time, after I had met the two of them, I did not know what all the fuss was about--- (meaning Bobby's celebrity status), and added that I had 'never really followed BASKETBALL
anyway! O.K., it was a corny joke, but Bobby and Kay were gracious enough to laugh anyway.

Bobby and Kay have always been people unaffected by fame and fortune. They were friends to Paula and to me when they didn't have to be. We have no fame, no fortune and no ability to really enhance the lives of people like the Murcers, who rubbed elbows with sports legends and countless people who, like Bobby, are well-known everywhere.

About a year ago, I was visiting with Bobby and Kay in their home in Edmond. It was a wonderful visit, and as I stood, preparing to leave, Bobby asked me if we could share a prayer. The three of us stood together in their living room, with our arms around each other. We had shared some personal things during that visit, and I felt very close to both of them. Kay sweetly laid her head on my left shoulder and we stood there and prayed for a long time. When the prayer was concluded, we all hugged and said very special things to one another. I will never forget that time with Bobby and Kay. It was one of the high-water marks in my life.

During the last couple of years, Paula and I have gotten acquainted with Kay's beautiful and loving parents and her brother and his sweet wife. All of them are out of the same mold as Bobby and Kay. They're all godly people with big hearts and a love for people and a love for the Lord.

We will never be the same, from having known Bobby and Kay. I told Bobby and Kay this past year that we have been thoroughly 'MURCERIZED'...we feel like part of their extended family! What wonderful, sweet, loving, gracious people! We miss Bobby so very much.

Kay, we thank God for Bobby and for you. We loved Bobby. We love you!

The best-est neighbors in the whole wide world!

2008-10-04T19:19:00.001-07:00

Paula and I have lived in our little home for 33 years. We have lived here longer than any of our neighbors, but we do live on a street that has remained pretty stable for most of that time. Most of our neighbors have lived here for over 25 years. All of our neighbors are nice people. We don't have a single weirdo on our block. We're blessed!

There are neighbors, however, and there are neighbors. It's one thing to have a neighbor who smiles and waves and will put your mail back in the mailbox when it mistakenly gets left in someone else's mailbox. That's nice. Most of our neighbors have always been people who prefer to drive into their garage and close the garage door and rarely ever come out and visit in the front yards or on the sidewalk. They're all nice people, but generally have enjoyed their privacy. I'm a little like that, also, so I understand.

A few years ago, a neighbor who had lived next door -- raised his three boys and later on, when he lost his wife, lost interest in taking care of a large home. He told Paula that he was going to sell his home. Paula was out in our yard, puttering around, when Joni Arter drove slowly by, rolled her window down and spoke with Paula for a minute. Paula asked her what she was doing in 'our' neighborhood, knowing that Joni and Neil Arter lived about a mile away. Joni let us know that they needed a little more room, and from time to time, she would get in her van and drive around, 'curb-shopping' in other neighborhoods. Paula told her that the house next to us was for sale. Joni turned around in her seat and said that she didn't see a 'For Sale' sign in the yard. Paula told her that: "You're the first person, after me, to know about it." Joni went home and picked up her husband, Neil. They returned and talked with our neighbor a long time. Before we knew it, they had bought the house next door! We couldn't believe it! What a wonderful thing--- to have the wonderful people who were: a. Christians b. the parents of little Paige and Gina Arter (Gina was named after our beautiful daughter Gena Marie) c. the people who, uner the direction of Neil Arter, orchestrated, directed and protected the Summer Singers at Oklahoma Christian University for years (our daughter and future son-in-law were both Summer Singers and benefited from the Arter's love and guidance during all those years!).

We were ecstatic! We had no idea, however, just what a blessing it would be to have the Arter family living next door. They are not 'hermit neighbors', but are peoople who love to have you in their lives and to be a part of their neighbors' lives. The Arters and the Shoemake's are good friends and the Shoemake's have benefitted greatly from knowing and associating with the Arter family. As Glen Beck would say:
'Here's how I got there': The Arter's are constantly either inviting us over for a meal or bringing something tasty from their kitchen. They invite us to do things with them. They are always offering to help with this or that....and the offers are not the Southern 'ya'll come over sometime' offer, with little substance behind it. They are genuine offers, and the followthrough that often accompanies an invitation or an offer, proves that what they said was heartfelt. We love these Arter people!

The Arter's are some of the most caring people we have ever met. Their house is nearly always brimming with guests...people who feel free to drop by...for a visit or a meal or to spend the night. The Arters are the most hospitable people we have ever known. We frankly do not know how they manage to make welcome so many dozens of people every week. If we didn't know better, we would think that there was some kind of multi-level marketing meeting going on next door! Everybody loves the Arters!

Paula and I always -- when the weather and schedule permits -- have breakfast on our front porch, among all the flowers and the rock garden and little fountain. The Arters have always come over, when the mood and opportunity presents itself, and we have a nice, if sometimes brief visit. They stay in touch. We've never had neighbors like this (and we've never before really invited that kind of closeness with our neighbors). The Arter's changed all that. They are like family to us, and most of that feeling of 'family' is due to the outgoing nature of the Arter family. They are, in our estimation, what the New Testament talks about with the admonitions to Christians to be hospitable people -- people who love their neighbors as themselves.

We are so blessed to know these Godly, sweet people. They are younger than we are, but we are learning a lot from their great example! These Arters are God's people, to be sure!

My wife...the other perfect person in my life

2008-10-04T18:06:00.000-07:00

In an earlier blog, I told you about my Mom. She was the first 'perfect' person in my life. I use the word perfect to describe a person in whom I never -- ever-- saw a flaw! Most people in this world are flawed like I am (but probably not to the degree that I am flawed), but I never saw a flaw in my Mom. Not once. I never heard her say anything unkind -- never saw her lose her temper -- never heard her gossip about anyone. She spent her entire life quietly going about, doing the right thing. Read my blog about her. She was a remarkable woman in every way.

My wife, Paula is the only other person in whom I have never found a flaw. Paula is 8 years younger than I am. We've been married for 36 years. She has put up with a lot of flaws in me, but I've never had to deal with any shortcomings in her life.

When I first noticed Paula--on the Oklahoma Christian College (now University) in OKC, OK, I was smitten! I told my best friend, Phil Johnson that I 'had to have that girl.' I had dated dozens and dozens of sweet, beautiful young Christian women while at OCC, and while they were all very nice, this young woman stood out. The first thing I noticed that she was sort of a Pied Piper. She befriended a number of guys and girls who did not seem to have a lot of friends. I liked that. Her experience at OCC was not 'all about her.' She never cared about being in any 'elite' group. She didn't really care for any of that. She just wanted to be a good, Christian young woman who loved the Lord and cared about, and for, others.
That got my attention. Those qualities were easy to identify.

I noticed her attitude -- always cheerful. Always happy. Always helpful. I found out where she went to church services and I made a point of finding out everything I could about her. I found out everything but her name, as it turned out! One Sunday, after church services at the Wilshire church of Christ, I scanned the picture board and found the beautiful girl I had seen at Oklahoma Christian so many times! She had a young-Julie-Andrews look about her. Sweet-faced, innocent, beautiful! The picture board showed her photo, along with her two sisters and her brother. It appeared that the girl of my dreams was named 'Julie'.

I caught up with her sister (whom I had identified as 'Paula' from the picture board at Wilshire). The picture board, however, had mis-named the girls of George and Joetta Bryan. When I spoke with her sister, (mis-named by the picture board as Paula), I called her by the wrong name. She turned to me (an old man in her eyes, I'm sure-- since I was 27), and frowned. Then she said: "My name's NOT Paula, and who ARE you anyway?" Talk about getting off on the wrong foot! I later found out that Julie didn't mean anything about her brusque treatment of me...that was just something in her nature back then! ha.

I went back inside and was able, with some help from a church member, to sort out the names correctly. With the correct information, I went back to campus and the next day, went to the Campus Life Office. I found out her full name, where she lived, and her class schedule....stuff that, were I to do this today, would no doubt land me in jail!...privacy and all that stuff would get in the way now, I'm sure.

Then I began to 'accidentally' walk past the doors to her classes when classes were dismissed, where I would often run into her. Then I began 'accidentally' to appear behind her in the cafeteria line. Soon I worked up the nerve to speak with her, and before long, had asked her out on a date. Since I was older, and wore a suit and carried a briefcase on campus (and was already balding), she was a little bit intimidated, often answering a question of mine with "yes, sir"...or "no, sir." For a while, I thought: "I'm not getting anywhere fast with this girl. Maybe this is has been a mistake."

For the first date with Paula, I decided to see a little bit of what she was about. I drove a nice car back then and dressed better than I do now (I had more disposable money then than now!). I was in the habit of taking dates to nice places. One of my favorites was a place called Glen's Hickry Inn, in OKC. White tablecloth dining, with candles, nice music, and a lot of ambiance! I didn't want Paula to want to go out with me just for the nice meals, movies, etc. I wanted to see a little bit of how she was made up, so, on our first date, I drove north into Edmond and pulled in to a parking spot directly in front of the Wide-Awake Cafe --- a greasy spoon that seemed to be open 24/7/365. It was not a tidy place. If one had dropped his wallet on the floor, it might have been a good idea to just leave it -- money, driver's license and all, and start over, rather than pick it up and catch who knows what from the floors! (I'm just kiddding....kind of....sort of).

As I pulled into the parking space in my new '71 burnt sienna colored Monte Carlo, I looked over at Paula to see her reaction. She was smiling and happy, not dejected and embarrassed by my selection of a place for our first date. All right! She passed my test with flying colors! I backed up the car and we drove into the city to Glen's and had a wonderful evening....the first of many.

I told my friend Phil, after our first date: "Hack (his nickname), I'm going to marry that girl." We had a lot of dates over the months to come. A lot of the girls on campus back then wore wigs, and Paula was no exception. On one of our dates, we were sitting in the girls' dorm parking lot and I was about to walk Paula back to the dorm. I leaned over to kiss her (for the first time) and she sort of deflected my kiss, with an evasive maneuver designed to make me believe that her wig was in need of adjustment. After she did this a couple more times, I began to get the message. What a disappointment! I weathered this treatment for awhile and then began to lose interest, since she was dating other guys that I didn't care for. I let her know it one night, and broke up with her. I finally let her know that she needed to decide whether she wanted to date just me, or continue to 'play the field.' We talked a lot and eventually our relationship improved to the point where I asked her to marry me. I went to her parents, not to get their approval, but to ask for their blessing. I got it, although her stern-faced, no-nonsense Dad didn't crack a smile. It was quite a while before he smiled over his daughter's choice for a husband. Her Mom thought I would be just fine, and she let me know it.

We were married in August of 1972. In 1977, Paula gave birth to Gena Marie, and then in January of 1980, to Jeff Bryan. We built a little house (where we still live), just east of the campus. Paula, with her wonderful attitude, love of the Lord and of me and her kids, made the little house a home. We've been through a lot in those years. We've lost a lot of family -- not many of them left now. We've done a lot of living, and have had a lot of life experiences during this time -- most of them wonderful, and some of them downright awful. Through it all, though, this little woman who trusted me to take care of her in 1972, when she looked up at me with such trust and such love, and said "I DO!", has stayed with me through thick and thin. Like my own Mom, Paula has cared for me, and for our kids, and other families, with a love and constancy of devotion I had only previously seen in my Mom. After 36 years, I can honestly say that there is no guile in my lovely bride. I have never seen a chink in her armor...a flaw in that lovely woman who is my wife!
I said this in my blog about my Mom, but I'll say it again here: God must have known I needed a lot of help, because He put two perfect (in my eyes) women in my life.

Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Paula. I love you!

"God's Mailboxes"

2008-10-03T21:36:00.000-07:00

When Gena and Jeff were very young, we would often go to the cemetery at Memorial and Kelly and feed the fish. There was a long reflecting pond, full of beautiful koi---hundreds of them -- and they were always hungry! We took old bread and the kids deliighted in feeding them.

We always believed in teaching our kids about the cycle of life, and part of that is learning about a natural and inevitable event in the lives of people and pets. The kids loved to wander about the cemetery and look at grave markers and 'smell' the plastic flowers-- and occasionally some real flowers. One day, as Jeff was running from one container of flowers to another, he yelled at me: "Dad smell these! They smell REAL GOOD!! I went over and 'smelled' the plastic flowers, of course, and, just like Jeff, I thought they smelled just great.

Later on, as we were driving home, Jeff and Gena settled down a little. We always went to Wendy's for a 'Frostie' when we had been out enjoying time together like that. Jeff said to me: "Dad, I know what those markers are for!" I said: "Really? What are they for?" Jeff said: "Those markers are God's mailboxes....but He only sends people in them."

That was, I thought, a profound thought for a three year old little boy. God's mailboxes! Indeed! We had talked about living and dying, and how people and animals all die someday, and that it is as natural as living. We talked about animals living and dying and that there is a difference when people live and die and that we have the opportunity, when we die, to live again, with Jesus.

Out of the mouths of babes....!

"Daddy, what's a Governor?"

2008-10-03T20:35:00.000-07:00

When our two kids -- Gena and Jeff were about three-something years old, we started violin lessons at OCU. The method of instruction was and is called The Suzuki Method. They took lessons each week and about once a month we had 'Stage Day', where the kids all demonstrated their skill levels, in front of an audience of adults. This allowed the kids to learn stage presence and confidence at an early age, as they learned to play their violins.

When Gena was five, and had taken to the violin like 'a duck to water', she was asked to play for Oklahoma Governor George Nigh at the Blue Room in the Oklahoma State Capitol building. Paula and I dressed up for the event and also dressed little Gena up in her Sunday best and we headed toward the Capitol. Paula and I were so excited for her (and so proud we could barely stand it). We were talking on and on about the event --- until Gena leaned over the front seat from the back seat where she had been sitting. Gena said: "Daddy?" I said: "Yes, honey, what is it?"
Gena asked: "Daddy, what's a Governor?"

Paula and I nearly died laughing. Here we were, driving along and going on and on about this very cool opportunity to show off our little girl, who had just turned four. We were very impressed with the prospect of her playing before Governor Nigh. Gena didn't have a clue what a Governor was. As it turned out, Governor Nigh's plane couldn't make it (weather or something-- I don't remember), so we got all dressed up for nothing. Oh well -- we all got to be together and it still made for a fun memory...

When Gena and Jeff were little people they played for a lot of adults and learned, over time, to be confident, competent adults. Music was good for their development. Gena stayed with it....while Jeff lost interest in the violin when he discovered girls at about age 14.

We recommend music lessons for kids. It's a good discipline, like making kids eat their green beans and take baths...when it is fun, kids look forward to the lessons. Kids can be taught to love a discipline that takes time and effort. They learn self-worth, confidence --they also learn how to push the envelope of their own capabilities. This brings about even greater confidence. They learn to perform without anxiety before audiences, and this can change the course of ones' life.

Now we watch another generation of our family learn music the Suzuki way...little Raegan has taken up the violin. I'm telling you--- it's enough to melt this old granddad's heart to see that little girl learn something that will change her life forever!

Memories of home -- part 1 - -Christmas, 1954

2008-10-01T20:02:00.000-07:00

The Christmas season of 1954 was a crazy time at the Shoemake's in Houston, Texas. My Dad and his cousin, Otis Gayle were re-wallpapering our home at 1710 Elmen, south and a little west of downtown Houston. Mom had gone Christmas shopping and Dad and Otis were working hard. They had a great time together. I remember a lot of unrestrained laughing and telling of jokes. When the two of them got together, they brought the house down with their laughing. They occasionally took a break and had a little eggnog, and they were definitely full of the Spirit of Christmas!

I remember, on that fateful Saturday afternoon, during one of the eggnog breaks, when Dad and Otis took my birthday present from the previous October --- a B-B gun, and they sat in the living room of our home, and took turns shooting the ornaments off of the Christmas tree that Mom had spent hours decorating. I was in awe of the complete disregard for their 'personal safety'--- I knew that Mom would return sometime soon and would not be happy about the mess in the living room. I knew, also, that she would not have approved of the consumption of all that eggnog. I didn't see it, but I later suspected that the eggnog was a little different from the eggnog that Dad poured for me. They were having far too much for for a wallpapering weekend!

Neither Dad nor Otis were normally so raucous, but when they got together, everyone around them got caught up in the laughter and cutting up. They were having a ball together, and everytime one of them scored a direct hit on a Christmas tree ornament, they both laughed so hard I thought they might stroke out!

At the height of their merriment, Mom walked through the front door, with her packages, wearing her winter coat and hat. She was dressed up, as though she had been to church services! Dad and Otis were in their khakis and wife beaters, and had wallpaper paste all over their clothes. When Mom walked in, before she sat the packages down, she saw the broken Christmas ornaments all over her wooden floors---tiny shards of brightly colored ornament glass. She was a little bit miffed at what they had done, and proceeded to tell them about it. Then she cried and the merriment stopped....at once! Dad and Otis then looked like scolded schoolboys and they rushed for the broom and dustpan and Mom's Electrolux vacuum cleaner. They really hustled! Mom's tears made them instantly contrite...like whipped puppies.

Dad and Otis rushed out and bought new Christmas ornaments and when they arrived home, they quickly put the tree back in order. They even made a good time of decorating the tree -- something I had never before seen my Dad get into with gusto!

I don't know why I remembered this event so clearly. Maybe it was the shock of seeing someone kill a fully dressed-out Christmas tree. Even though I was ten years old, I still believed in Santa, and I sort of had the thought that Santa might not be happy about the demise of our tree. I was apprehensive. You just don't violate a Christmas tree -- (at least not until after Santa has made his appearance).

Later that evening, with the Christmas tree all ablaze with lights -- especially the 'bubbly-lights' (my personal favorites), I saw Mom and Dad kissing in the living room, so I went to bed feeling pretty good. Everything was all right...and not long therafter, Santa was sure to visit the Shoemake's home in Houston!...and he did!

All in all, it was a great Christmas!

Sam Rayburn -- a great leader -- a kind man.

2008-09-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

Are you a history buff? You'll like this story.In 1961, right after we lost our home to hurricane Carla on the Gulf coast of Texas, my dad was in a dilemma. We had just lost our home and had no flood insurance (no such thing existed back then). We lost everything we owned, and we didn't own much. Dad had worked hard for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Galveston, TX., which was not 20 miles from La Marque, Texas where we lived. We didn't have a lot of money, and saving money was not possible in the job that dad had, as a photographer for the Corps.

After we lost our home, Dad didn't know what we would do. We didn't have the money to start all over. In a desperate move, Dad decided to call in a favor. Dad's Mom, Tennie Hortense Childers was, as a child, a sandbox playmate in Tennessee, of a boy named Sam Rayburn. Sam grew up and settled in Bonham, Texas. Tennie grew up and moved to Sherman, Texas, just west of Bonham. The two of them stayed in touch over the years. Sam went on to prominence, as the Speaker of the House in Washington, D.C., and was known as a man with more real power than the President of the United States, serving in that capacity for seventeen years! Tennie went on to marry Eugene Shoemake. My Dad was their son. "Mr. Sam", as he was widely known, never knew my dad, but he knew and thought highly of Tennie (my grandmother).

In a desperate move, Dad called Washington, D.C., and left a message for Speaker Rayburn, telling the staff person he spoke with that Mr. Rayburn did not know him, but that he was the son of Tennie (Childers) Shoemake. Dad hung up and about ten minutes later, Speaker Rayburn called my dad. They spoke briefly (mostly about Tennie and the childhood the two of them had enjoyed), and then Speaker Rayburn asked my dad: 'What can I do for you, Jack?' Dad told Speaker Rayburn that, for years he had tried to be transferred from the U.S. Corps of Engineers in Galveston, TX., to a job with U.S. Treasury, in the Custom Division. Dad had always wanted to be a customs inspector, he explained. He was having trouble feeding his family while working for the Corps of Engineers, and had just lost his home and everything
in it.

Speaker Rayburn told dad that he could not promise him anything, but he said: 'Jack, give me a few minutes and I will make a couple of calls and I will call you back'. He hung up and Dad frankly never expected to hear from him again. Speaker Rayburn was an immensely powerful man with a lot of responsibilities.

Dad never heard from Speaker Sam Rayburn again, but, in about ten to fifteen minutes, Dad received a call from someone, (as I remember it), that he called 'the Director of the Port Authority in New York' telling Dad to report to Dallas the following Monday for his new job with U.S. Customs! Forget the mountains of paperwork! Speaker Sam Rayburn, with his far-reaching power, made it happen with a single phone call. We moved that very weekend from a hurricane-wrecked home in La Marque, Texas, to Dallas, and Dad began working in a job that made a lot more money, which changed his life and the lives of our entire family.

Speaker Sam Rayburn didn't have to help my Dad. My Dad could do nothing to enhance the life of Mr. Rayburn. Mr. Rayburn simply remembered an old friend, Tennie (Childers), and honored her by helping my Dad.

I have thought of Mr. Rayburn many times over the years. I wonder how many other lives he touched, as a kind and thoughtful man whose power in the greatest country in the world was unmatched for many years. How did he keep his integrity, and sense of duty and honor in a world where so many others are often corrupted and self-serving? I miss Sam Rayburn. Sam was a true heroe in our time. He provided a rudder for this vast ship of a country in which we live -- and he steered a straight course through often turbulent, dangerous waters.

"Mr. Sam" -- we miss you. We salute you for the life you lived and the country you served so well.

(Note: Take a moment and google Sam Rayburn. Read about what a REAL leader is all about. It will be worth your time).

For the love of rocks!

2008-09-29T17:47:00.000-07:00

If you don't love beautiful rocks, then you may not want to read this story.

In 1975, I worked for a company called Ministers Life. I sold life and health, disability and retirement plans to ministers, missionaries and students, studying to become ministers. I represented the company in the state of Oklahoma, but also traveled to other states -- Texas, Arkansas, Kansas and Colorado. On one occasion, I flew to Denver and spoke to the students at the Bear Valley School of Preaching. During the day, when the students were in class, I had a lot of time on my hands, and I rented a Volkswagen 'bug' from a car rental place called Rent-a-Volks, or something sort of like that name.

Gas was cheap and I drove all over a large area, looking at all the mountains, old, abandoned mines and other scenic places. I went to the Royal Gorge one day. Fascinated witht the rocks there, I asked a park ranger how far I had to go to be in a place where I could pick up rocks. He told me. I drove to that area, some distance from the park, parked my Volks, and began looking over the cliff at the rock formations that were visible. After doing a lot of looking, I finally saw some rocks, sticking out of the face of the cliff (over 1,000 feet straight down!). In the bright sunlight they appeared to be made of silver! I had to have them. Then I realized that if I could pry them from the cliff wall, I still could not take them back on my flight home to OKC. What to do? I decided that I would try to pry them loose (one was already laying in full view on a ledge, about 30 feet down the side of the more or less vertical wall on the cliff).

I have a fear of heights -- something that I've had most of my life -- so, the decision to go over the cliff was difficult for me. I was almost 31 years old and should have known better, but I didn't at the time. I picked my way carefully down the cliff wall, carefully testing each hand and foothold. Arriving at the ledge, I could not look over the side of the ledge. I was terrified....but I wanted those rocks! Some of the rocks that had caught my eye were firmly embedded in the cliff wall, and were clearly out of reach of my abilities. Some of the others were not! I began working on the smaller rocks, and, upon closer examination, realized that the rocks were composed primarily of slabs of mica, mixed in with quartz, feldspar and pink granite. They were gorgeous! I have collected rocks all of my life and had never seen anything like them! Wow!

I worked on the ledge, which extended outward from the face of the cliff about three feet. I lost track of time, but would guess that I spent over an hour on the ledge. I pried loose several speciments that weigh somewhere around 20-30 pounds each, another one that weighs over 60 pounds, and the granddaddy of them all -- a beautiful specimen that weighs over 100 pounds! I stacked them up, after determining that they were all 'rock-garden-worthy' and then left them there. Then I worked my way back up the cliff face while, in the midst of my terror at being near the top of a vertical rock face that, with one mis-step, would send me flying down to the railroad tracks over 1,000 feet below.

I reluctantly left my treasure stacked on the ledge and after looking longingly at the pile of rocks from the safety of the top of the cliff, I got back in my Volkswagen bug and went back to Denver. I made careful note of the location, so that someday --- if the opportunity came for a return visit, I could 'bring home my mountain babies!'

The opportunity to return to the spot came in 1986. Paula and I, along with Gena and Jeff, while on a trip to Colorado to visit Bruce and Sherrill Kerr in Aspen, stopped on our way home at the spot where I had stashed my treasure. I asked Paula and the kids to remain in the car while I went back for the rocks. Gena was nine years old and Jeff was seven. I was a fool for risking my life again for those rocks, but I went over the cliff again, and slowly, and with great care and great deliberation, made my way back up the side of the cliff once again, each time with one of the rocks on my shoulder. It was hard climbing up the cliff face with one arm, but, since there were a number of rough places where one could secure handholds and footholds of sorts, and since the side of the cliff way was not perfectly vertical, but very, very steeply pitched, I felt as though I could -- instantly, if necessary, drop any of the rocks I was carrying, grabbing the cliff face, if necessary.

By the time I had arrived at the top of the cliff with the largest rock -- the prize of prizes-- my shirt was torn and my shoulder, neck and the side of my face were all bleeding. I had skin torn off my hands and arms and had some assorted bruises here and there, but I had the rocks safely on the ground at the top of the cliff!

After arriving in OKC and having positioned the rocks in the rock gardens in our yard, I went to a chiropractor and, over the next six weeks, had a number of treatments on my back, from the trauma of the ordeal of securing the beautiful rocks.

These beautiful speciments reside in our yard today, and one day my children will inherit my hard-won treasure. They are also seriously interested in rock collecting, as is Paula. None of them are as rabidly fanatical about rock collecting as I am, but they are all close! This rock-collecting thing is addictive.

We love rocks as much as other people love antiques. If a fire broke out in our home, we would grab the pictures and video tapes of family and then run outside and begin moving rocks away from the sides of our home.

Paula and I have rocks from all over the world, and each one has a story. Don't ever ask about any of the rocks, if you visit us in our home, because to do so, or show even a mild interest in the rocks will invite a torrent of information that will leave YOU with eyeballs rolling up into their sockets! You will fall victim to that most dreaded of maladies......'The Terminal Glaze' (medical professionals simply refer to the condition as the TG's....but, that's another story!)

Come by sometime to look at my rocks. For your well-being, however, just don't say anything!

:)

Zapped by lightning!

2008-09-27T17:59:00.001-07:00

After my fall through the 3rd floor window at OCC on Dec. 1, 1966, I spent a LONG time in Baptist Hospital in OKC. After my third of five hospitalizations and surgeries, sometime during the Spring of 1967, I was tickled to get to have a date with a sweet girl I had been dating when I fell out of the window. Her name was Carol Davis, (the girl on the left with the polka-dot looking dress) and she was from Bay Shore, N.Y. It was late in the day, but it was not yet dark. We were walking from the girls' dorm where she lived, to the campus. It was not a great distance, so I didn't mind walking with my right leg in a walking cast, and my right upper arm held together with plate and screws and my right forearm trussed up with a brace that allowed springs to hold my fingers and thumb out in stirrups that made them not curl into a claw (which they did when I did not wear the device). I had torn some pretty significant nerves in my arm --- radial nerve, I think they called it. On my own I could not raise my right wrist, or straighten my fingers.

I had braces on my teeth at the time. A smart-mouthed (grin) jr. high kid I had previously run into, saw the cast, the arm brace, the braces on my teeth and said: "What's all this, Shoemake ---your Science Fair project?" He then just about died laughing. If I could have caught him, I would have throttled him! Back to the story: Carol Davis and I were heading toward the College Church (now called the Memorial Road congregation. It was raining. I walked on her right side down the sidewalk, since my left arm still worked. She was pretty and I was so proud to be able to be out of the wheelchair and actually walking...well, sort of walking. I still hurt so very much -- all over -- and I looked like Chester, on the old Gunsmoke t.v. series, with my right leg in a stiff plastic cast wrapped with plastic. We couldn't walk very fast. She held the umbrella with her right hand and I held it with my left hand, and we made decent progress toward the building. I had a rubber walking boot on my walking cast and a nice dress shoe on my left foot, made of some synthetic material that made it fairly invulnerable to rain water. Carol had some rain gear over her feet. Suddenly there was a simultaneous blinding light and explosion! It was like a bomb had gone off nearby!

Nearly deaf from the lightning bolt, and stunned, with the retinas in our eyes feeling poached, we looked around for the umbrella. There it was -- on the ground over by Carol. She picked it up (I couldn't perform that maneuver, with the cast on my leg), and we headed off toward the building again, which was probably still 200 feet away. Our hair was wet (yes, I had hair back then) and we were now soaked. As we stood in the 'back of the old auditorium, right inside the old east entry, we were checking ourselves out. Everything seemed to be okay. Then we noticed the smell! Like burned hair! We started looking at each other and checking each other out. We noticed that there was no hair on my left (umbrella) arm and no peach fuzz on Carol's right (umbrella) arm! That's where the smell came from! Burned hair! At that moment, two other girls we both knew -- Cheryl Suffridge (now Cheryl Payne, of Stillwater), and Karen Selby (from California), came in from the rain. They were goggle-eyed. I asked them if they had heard and seen the lightning strike. They almost shouted out: "Did we SEE IT? It hit your umbrella and we saw it arc to the ground!" We had known that it had hit nearby, but had no idea that we had been hit. When we saw the hair missing from our arms, we sort of assumed that it was from 'static electricity' from the lightning having hit so close to us! The lightning could have gone right through us. Instead, it followed the rain streaming off of the umbrella and went to the ground. Unbelievable!

Later on, although so very grateful for our safety, we couldn't help but remark how God was either trying to teach me something...or, possibly, the Devil was a 'bad shot'...he missed me again!

Once again, God's Providential care in my life and the life of my friend, Carol.

I was OCC's First 'Real' Dropout!

2008-09-25T16:50:00.000-07:00

Thursday, December 1st, 1966 at 8:00 p.m. was a cold night on campus. The temperature was about 20 and there was a brisk wind. There was snow on the ground. My roommate, Ken Nichols and I, along with Sheila Holland and Randa Herschel, were all on the north end of the Learning Center. Ken and I had been horsing around, showing off in front of the girls. Then we settled down and were laughing and cutting up, having a good time. (The picture of Ken is at the window, days later, after the window had been replaced. Ken was looking down at where I had landed. The little blond is Randa. Ken and I both really liked her and Randa a lot. The other pic is of Randa and Sheila together, out between the Learning Center and just north of the old tennis courts between the girls' and boys' dorms.

I did a really dumb thing. Ken said something funny and I sort of slapped him on the shoulder and I stepped back-- deliberately-- and leaned against the glass window, with my right foot sort of propped up against the bottom of the window frame. The windows did not have guard rails (someones bright idea), and kids leaned on the windows all the time. Admittedly, leaning on a floor-to-ceiling window is not something a thinking person would do. We did it all the time, though, and the greasy head prints all along the windows was evidence of the fact that I didn't invent dumb window tricks. I was in good company. I just became OCC's only REAL DROPOUT!

When my shoulders touched the window, the window did not just crack -- it exploded, and I went out of the window. My right Achilles tendon held me briefly, however, and that caused me to go out of the window head first, toward the concrete down below. I might add that the window was NOT made of plate glass. Some bright guy was responsible for the windows being made of 3/16" inch 'crystal'...not plate glass as most responsible people installed in public buildings. There were also not any guard rails in front of these floor to ceiling windows at that time. The pane of glass was huge, and most of it went with me, and I landed on some of it and sustained a lot of cuts due to landing on glass. A lot of the glass landed ON me and some of that glass also did a lot of damage. I had over 500 stitches, from the initial surgery and repairs to my body from the glass.

On the way down, some interesting things happened: Time slowed down. In my mind's eye, it took two hours and twenty minutes to fall that distance. I got to watch a video of my life to that point in time. At the end of the 'video', I saw a brilliant white...tunnel (for want of another word that will adequately describe it). I felt at peace and was not fearful. I thought, however, that I was about to die, but the thought was not an unpleasant one. The 'tunnel' through which I was traveling, was full of what appeared to me to be a dismembered chandelier, with the individual crystal pieces turning over and over, displaying both brilliant, familiar colors and colors I had never seen before. I have always assumed that the dismembered chandelier image was due to my eyes being open as I tumbled out of the window and as I looked up, I saw shards of glass tumbling in slow motion, reflecting the lights in the Learning Center. I don't know. The thing about the colors is still something I think about sometimes -- along with the brilliant white 'tunnel'. Who can make sense of memories like that. They say that such memories are common. The slow-motion replay of ones' life in an instant is also an amazing thing. I don't understand any of it, but the memories of it all are still so vivid...like it was only yesterday.

As the 'video' ended, I snapped out of the pleasant reverie, and realized that I was going to hit concrete-- maybe head first. In my mind's eye, I thought I might land across the balcony guard rail (yes, there was a balcony guard rail, but no guard rails in front of 3-story windows!). I maneuvered so that I could land parallel to the railing. As it turned out, that is what happened, and that was one thing that helped save my life. I had taken several years of self-defense training in high school, and I knew how to fall properly, without having to really think about it. There was no time to think about falling correctly, but I did it instinctively. I landed on my back, with my head tucked on my chest, and hit the ground more or less flat, with my legs bent at the knee and feet flat. My arms were extended from my body and my hands and forearms were flat-- all of this to try to disperse impact over a larger surface area, while protecting my head. In my mind, however, there was still the specter of the guard rail on my left, running east to west. I landed right beside the guard rail, having corrected my fall from a head-first fall to a 'flat' fall, and a twist from a north-south orientation that would have put me on top of the guard rail below, to an east-west orientation that would leave me on the concrete, but not cut in half by the steel railing.

When I hit, I bounced. In my mind's eye, it was an exaggerated bounce, in slow motion. In an attempt to not hit the guard rail, I leaned somewhat to my right side, and in so doing, I tucked my right elbow, instead of leaving it extended as intended. (Remember, in my mind's eye, I had a long time to prepare for the landing). Leaning to the right, I also lost the bend in my right knee, and my right leg was more or less straight out. Bad move! I heard my right arm snap, above my elbow. I heard my right leg snap, between my ankle and kneecap. I then felt my right wrist snap as my right arm was slapping like a rag dolls' arm on concrete and glass. On the first bounce, my 'tucked' head snapped back and slammed into the concrete and glass. One of my shoes was found a distance from the north side of the Learning Center, where it was thrown when I landed.

I thought I was dead. I couldn't breathe. When finally I was able to take a breath, the pain hit. Oh my, did the pain hit! I had glass buried in my back, legs, neck and head. I had glass buried in places where I didn't even know I had places -- front and back. Then I felt the cold. Bitter cold. I was bleeding profusely. My fall shook the concrete and people felt the vibrations all over the building. The doors leading from the building to the balcony were locked, so no one was able to come to my aid. John Morrison, a computer genius working in the control room where the computers were located, felt the vibration at the other end of the building and came running to the north end of the building. He had a key to the door on his key ring. Mark Livingston was there with John when they went out on the balcony and picked their way across the glass and blood to see what they could do to help me. Mark ran back inside and grabbed a tennis ball and gently but firmly pushed the tennis ball into my right armpit to help stanch the blood flow. If not for that, I would have died right there on the balcony. John and Mark, seeing the crowd of students inside the building at the windows, asked them for coats to throw on top of me. The temperature and wind outside would also have killed me in short order. I was paralyzed. Girls began throwing their coats on top of me to help keep me warm. John and Mark's quick thinking saved my life. John and Mark are two men I pray for often, to this day. I will also be forever grateful to the girls who threw their nice coats on me, getting them soiled with blood and glass. Such kindness!

An ambulance was called. It took 25 minutes for the ambulance to make it to campus from Baptist Hospital. I was semi-conscious as they wheeled me into the emergency room. My eyes were closed. As they wheeled me (face up) to an elevator, I 'saw' the threshold of the elevator -- that it had not quite come level with the floor where the gurney was located. I somehow knew, with eyes closed, that my nearly severed right arm would fall from the gurney when we entered the elevator and ran over the 'bump'. I said something to the gurney attendants. I remarked about the floor being green linoleum...with eyes still closed. (Strange, huh?).

In the operating room where they wheeled me immediately on arrival at the hospital, I heard Dr. John Harsha, an orthopedic surgeon who had been called at his home, and who had hurried to the hospital. He was not happy about what had been done (or not done after my arrival there at Baptist). With my eyes still closed, and somewhat in shock, I heard Richard Mock (a Dean at OCC at the time), come into the room. I was conscious enough to hear his voice and know whose voice it was, and, with eyes still closed, I somehow knew that one of the attending nurses was a single woman, and I made some reference to the two of them 'getting together' and getting to know each other. (Dick Mock was single at the time, in case you're wondering). I heard about that remark over the weeks and months ahead, during my stay at Baptist. It seemed simple enough to me. In my mind's eye, I was above the operating table, and had a clear view of the room and the people in it. Same with the elevator. I was an 'observer', or so it seemed.

A team of surgeons operated on me for about 6 hours, trying to repair some of the damage. I had broken bones and a lot of glass damage. My head was bashed pretty good, and over time, it appeared that I would go blind. Dr. Harsha told me that I would likely not do well with radial nerve surgery on my right arm. He told me that the procedures at that time were likely to only give me the prospect of a 10-15% recovery of my arm. It looked like I would be a cripple, and maybe a blind cripple at that. I had internal bleeding, and trauma to internal organs from the fall. I ended up having to have five major surgeries to get over the fall from the window. I had to drop out of college and could not return until the fall of 1969. By then all my friends had graduated. Most of them, including my roommate, were now married. My roommate, Ken Nichols, married the girl I had been dating when I fell out of the window (Carol Davis).

During Christmas of that year, I was still confined at Baptist. It was a lonely place. Most of my friends had gone home for the holidays. Two people stand out in my memory of those lonely days. Lon Winton (a member at Memorial Road at this time), and Chuck Hansen, came to the hospital often, and would bring treats, or sometimes stay for a game of chess. I will never forget their kindness to me, during the days of my deepest despair. I have prayed many times over the years for God's blessings in their lives. Lonnie and I were not friends...we were only acquaintances. The attention he showered on me was unbelievable! Who leaves family on cold winter nights to brighten the corner of someone who is not even a friend? They were like angels to me. I was lonely and frightened and in terrible pain. They made a difference in my life. I'll never forget their kindness.

On Christmas Eve, with most of the 6th floor of Baptist mostly empty, Dr. Harsha appeared one afternoon. He told me he was going to 'smuggle' me out of the hospital, where I had been for weeks. He said that he and his family wanted to have me come to their home for their Christmas celebration. He had left his car idling (to keep it warm) at the entrance to the emergency room. He had a wheelchair and a jumpsuit that belonged to him. He dressed me in the jumpsuit, put me in the wheelchair and 'furtively' smuggled me out of the hospital via the freight elevator (that added to the drama and suspense). I spent the day with the Harsha family. Dr. and Mrs. Harsha had eight children and Mrs. Harsha was due to deliver their ninth child any day. I sat there, among all the Christmas trees and presents and drank eggnog and cider and enjoyed their hospitality. That evening, Dr. Harsha returned me to the hospital and once again, to my delight, engaged in the same conspiratorial drama that really appealed to my sense of adventure! What a family!What a man! I still thank God for Dr. Harsha regularly.

Long story a little shorter: Over the years ahead, God healed my body. Completely. I have no disability from the shredded, severed nerves, or the broken bones, or the head trauma. I have 20/10 vision, with glasses. I have no arthritis. I still thank God regularly for His healing in my life. If this accident had not happened, I would never have met my sweet wife, Paula, who was in the 6th grade when I started college! If the accident had not occurred, I would never have met her. I wouldn't have two wonderful kids -- Gena and Jeff. I wouldn't have two perfect grandchildren, Raegan and Greyson.

I thank God for my life and for the blessings that I enjoy every day! Isn't God great? Don't we ALL have so much for which to be thankful? I don't take my life for granted. I hope you're grateful for the blessings in your life.

My Special Day with Jesse Owens

2008-09-24T20:37:00.000-07:00

Many years ago there was a man with colossal athletic abilities. He was a black man, and was the best in the world at the time. He represented the U.S.A. at the Olympics, much to the displeasure of Adolf Hitler. Jesse Owens was--- all of his life, a larger-than-life man. He was an humble man, and never used his fame in an inappropriate way. He was a legend and is STILL a legend.

Back in the '70's, when I was fresh out of college at OCC and worked for the college (before OCC became a university), I was asked to pick Jesse Owens up at Will Rogers Airport and take him to OCC. I was also asked to take him anywhere he wanted or needed to go while he was here in the OKC area that day. Wow! What an honor! When Guy Ross asked me, I jumped at the chance! I had a brand new '71 Chevrolet Monte Carlo and was thrilled to have the chance to spend some time with Mr. Owens.
I didn't have to share him with anyone during our drive-time.

I asked Mr. Owens a lot of questions, about his career and about his life. It probably comes as no surprise to you that Mr. Owens had very little to say about his remarkable life, filled with fame and fortune -- with his associations with other famous people. I was in awe of the man! Mr. Owens, however, was an unusual man. He would not talk about his life, his fame, his achievements. He had no need of anything that put his life in the spotlight. You know what he wanted to talk about while we drove through the city, to and from the airport and other places? He asked about MY life. I was 27 years old, had never done anything noteworthy--had never been anywhere to speak of. In spite of that, the great man, Jesse Owens, asked me a lot of questions -- about my youth, my parents, why I had chosen Oklahoma Christian for my college education....and a host of other questions. I am sure that my answers were of no real interest or importance to Mr. Owens. He was doing what all truly great people do....he turned the spotlight on the other guy. He made the other guy feel important and relevant.

I will never forget Jesse Owens. Such greatness. Such humility. Such kindness. I wish Mr. Owens still walked among us.

Betty Lou Gayle --her life defines love and friendship!

2008-09-24T18:43:00.000-07:00

Here's another story that, while it touches on my Mom, the spotlight this time is on someone else. My dad had a first cousin named Noel Gayle. Noel was married, for over sixty years to the same woman -- a wonderful woman named Betty Lou. My Dad and Noel were close, and my Mom and Betty Lou were like sisters. They loved each other and talked a lot ---and visited when they could. My folks and the Gayle family lived in the Dallas area, although clear across town from each other. Visits with the Gayle family were always special...REALLY special when their kids also came over.

Over the years, the kids on both sides all grew up and pretty much lost touch with each other, but Mom and Betty Lou and Dad and Noel remained close....Mom and Betty Lou were especially close. The Gayle's had three kids: Tommy, Linda and Terry. Tommy is Matt Gayle's dad! If you know Matt, then you have already met Tommy! Peas in a pod -- both are wonderful people and a lot of fun to be around!

I am writing this tonight to tell you about Betty Lou. When my Mom could no longer be a friend to Betty Lou, due to Mom's Alzheimer's condition, and had to move from her home in Dallas to Edmond, OK, where we could help take care of her, I found out what Betty Lou Gayle was really all about. Even though Mom's memories were fading fast, Mom received a card or letter or card AND letter from Betty Lou EVERY DAY FOR OVER FOUR AND A HALF YEARS! EVERY DAY! Betty Lou typed news about her family -- her kids and grand kids, news about their local congregation -- whatever news she could rustle up for Mom. I have never, in my entire life, seen such devotion to a friendship as Betty Lou showed toward my Mom. Never. Betty Lou was a quiet lady. She never wanted any attention (she still doesn't). She's not a complainer, although she is nearly blind. She has a wonderful spirit and an unbelievable faith in her Lord Jesus Christ. She and Noel had their kids in church every time the doors were open. They were great examples of Christian living. They were involved in every good work of the church. Her kids are all wonderful people who love the Lord. Like ripples in a pond, her legacy continues across time, touching one generation after another.

Betty Lou and Noel have had a great impact on my life....and I guess I could say that, due to Mom's condition, and her inability to respond to Betty Lou's constant attention--constant acts of kindness and friendship, I grew to love Betty Lou like I had never loved her in my earlier years. Betty Lou continued her steadfast expressions of love toward my Mom, even when Mom couldn't reciprocate. I believe that in Betty Lou, I saw what true love is all about: an acceptance of all that has been, all that is, and all that never can be again. What a woman! What a treasure! Betty Lou's life is one that makes the angels sing!

Remembering Mom 9-23-08

2008-09-23T20:07:00.000-07:00

When Mom was in the Alzheimer's wing at Oklahoma Christian Home, on Boulevard, near Danforth in Edmond, she was near the end of her life, but was still able to walk. Paula and I had always gone to the home every time we had the chance, and were almost always there for the supper hour. We would take Mom for short walks either before or after dinner, and then help Mom with her dinner, trying to encourage her to eat while telling her about the events of the day, and asking about her day. We had a little routine. After dinner, we would walk Mom back to her room and visit with her a while and then we would help her out in the bathroom. Mom had passed the point of being modest, since her mind was slipping. She was like a little child. So tiny, so frail, so sweet. Late one afternoon after supper we were standing at the window in her room, looking out at all the flowers that cooler weather had not taken from us. Mom always loved looking out her window, so Paula and I had planted many hundreds of jonquils, tulips, cannas, irises and hundreds of plants in the raised beds. Mom enjoyed them, and on more than one occasion, had 'helped' us plant things in the raised beds. Mom had loved her flowers all her life. She still loved getting her hands in the moist dirt and helping us. It was fun, seeing how much she enjoyed helping out.

Mom stood there, in the fading light and noticed the little plastic hummingbirds, with their little wings going around in opposite directions. She remarked: "My, aren't they tame!...they never leave! I think they like me!" Then Mom came out with: "I wonder if hummingbirds would like to go to church." As I stood behind Mom, tears came to my eyes. The little Mama that had loved me all my life was slipping away from me. We made our way to the bathroom, for the little before-bedtime-ritual of going to the bathroom, washing her hands, brushing her dentures, putting 'cold cream' on her little face and hands and getting her into her pajamas. As I stood behind Mom, helping her wash her hands, I asked her a question. I didn't really expect an answer. I was just mainly trying to stimulate her mind. Often, when I asked Mom questions or otherwise tried to engage her in conversation, she would look at me blankly, or stare off at some imagined thing in the distance or in her mind's eye. I asked her: "Mom, are you happy?" She stopped washing her hands and turned around, wet hands dripping -- then looked directly at me and said: "Yes, I decided a long time ago to be happy." Such a profound statement from one with pretty advanced Alzheimer's! One of the most profound thoughts I had ever considered! HAPPINESS IS A DECISION! It has nothing to do with ones' circumstances. It is a decision! I will never forget that statement from my little Mama, for it was a cornerstone of her being.

Not long after that, again, after supper one evening, we were washing hands again and as I stood behind Mom, guiding her little hands with mine, I softly asked her: "Mom, have you had a good life?" Once again, I didn't really expect an answer, because Mom was most often now in a place, mentally, where I couldn't follow. Her answer came without hesitation, however, as she said: "Yes-sir, I've lived MY life with NO regrets...have YOU?" I was dumbstruck! Where had that come from? Her mind was virtually gone! I gave her a hug and said to her: "No, Mom, I have not lived my life with no regrets...I'm deeply flawed. I've never been as good a person as you have always been....but, Mom, I'm convinced that God still loves me! She smiled at me and soon after, fell quiet again.

Mom didn't say much more after that. One day, not long after that, Mom was holding Erick and Gena's little baby, Raegan, on her lap (with close supervision), and was trying to remember how to talk to a baby and to say sweet things to Raegan. She had trouble doing it, but all of us knew what she intended, and it was a sweet moment. Then Mom said, very clearly, for all of us to hear: "Well, it's time for me to go...out with the old and in with the new." With those words, Mom had decided that it was, indeed, time for her to go. She began to refuse food and after a week of this, she had to be wheeled to the dining room in a wheelchair. She became very weak. Then Mom refused to drink liquids. She had made her decision. It was so hard to see the Mom who had brought me into the world and who had devoted herself to her kids, her husband, her grandchildren, her Mother and Mother-in-law and countless friends, give up her life.

Mom passed away about a week later. She was tired. She had no physical ailments. Her little body was almost invisible under the covers as she quietly slipped away while I gently smoothed her hair and continued softly and quietly telling her how much I loved her. Mom passed from this life on November 17, 2004, having avoided ever once seeing a doctor since her youngest child was born, in 1954. She was an extraordinary woman. She never complained -- about anything. She took life as it came and made the most of every day. After her passing, when cleaning out her home, Paula and I went through a 55-gallon drum of letters and cards of people who had loved her! There were thousands of them. It took weeks to go through them. I knew Mom was special, but until I read those cards and letters, I had no idea of the high regard so many hundreds of people had for her. Mom touched a lot of lives. In her correspondence with others, she always spoke of our Lord. Jesus was real in her life and she spoke of Him to everyone. She was a gentle woman. I loved her with all of my heart. Still do. Always will.

The Slow Blink

2008-09-23T18:46:00.000-07:00

Have you ever watched someone speak who is a little full of himself (herself)? If you're trapped and have to listen, because the person pontificating is your boss, or an elderly person (like me), or someone you endure because you love the person in spite of that person's bad habit of verbosity (that's a Bill O'Reilly word of the day).

I have always found relief from being the target of the 'learned ones' who want to educate everyone in their paths. Here are some tension-relievers:

1. Count their 'ahs'. Note the time, as you begin counting how many times they use 'ah', 'you know', 'see what I mean', 'and stuff', 'totally', 'to die for'....you get the idea -- now, add your own to the list and you can, if you will think quickly, make a mental note to add these up in columns. At the end of the ordeal, you can up all of the teeth gritters and divide by the number of minutes/hours you've suffered during this particular session. Assign the offender with a score, or, as your golfing buddies would term it, a handicap. It's not uncommon for a really heavy-hitter to reach a score of 50 to 60 in less than five minutes.

2. Watch the way they will often pause, when deep in profundity, to slowly inhale through their nostrils as they tilt their head back in a pre-heimlich maneuver designed to clear the airways for the onslaught of words to come--then slowly, and with great deliberation and theatrics, close their eyelids, as though the effort was commensurate with the closing of the roof of an NFL stadium. The Slow-Blinkers will often, during the middle of this routine, raise one or both hands and extend a finger to emphasize the point, with all the anticipation of one waiting for lightning to strike something or someone nearby. Listen carefully, for you are in the presence of greatness.

3. Count the number of times, after you have listened to an interminable speech, and try to work a word or two in sideways -- how the offender will interrupt you, after one or two errant words have escaped your lips, and say, with great gravity,
"you know, the same thing happened to me...", or, my personal favorite, "I was just gonna say...". After spearing your comment with these verbal harpoons, they will often steal your moment in the sun and run off with comments in another direction, never to return to hear what little you were going to try to say.

If you are full of mischief, you can always feign deep sleep. Allow YOUR head to slowly rock back, while your lips part just slightly. Then allow your eyes to begin slowly rolling upwards into their sockets. This will sometimes allow the offender to begin to get the message "audience fading fast", whereupon he/she will usually quickly break off the conversation, offer a cursory "NICE TALKING TO YOU", and immediately look for the next victim.

Note: I don't want to be THAT GUY, but if I am, have the goodness in you to send me an anonymous note and tell me! You know how it is with old guys (like me) and with old ladies. The older one becomes, the fewer friends we have left in this world. People who, in our youth would have said: "You know, you talk too much"...or, 'that's dumb"...or, much."....or, "that's dumb"...or "too much information." When one begins pushing the envelope of age, the correcting mechanism
found in old friends is lost, and old people lose their mental compass...the mental compass that keeps the rest of us a little more aware of how we dress, what we say and to whom...even to be aware of denture breath!

People become reluctant to 'dress down' the elderly or give them much-needed gentle guidance. I have a friend who is older than I am. Nice guy. Wonderful Christian man. Problem is, when he is talking with me, he is always digging at the end of his nostrils-- first with one hand, then with the other. Won't use a handkerchief or a Kleenex. He digs. He, like all nose-miners, invariably wants to shake hands-- with everybody he meets. He has a sinus condition and when he's not digging in his nostrils, he is snorting things back up into his sinus cavities where they have been 'cooking' for who knows how long. But this is another subject, and I only intended to give 'tension-relieving' tips when listening to 'bucket-mouths'. I got carried away....just like the pontificators and bloviators I was just describing. How humiliating....!

My dad's one-day lark with a Civil War Cannon

2008-09-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

My dad, Jack B. Shoemake, grew up in Sherman, TX. He was born in 1916. When he was 13 years old, living on a hill right next to what is now Highway 75, at 408 N. Ely Street (now called Sam Rayburn Drive), he had one of his bright ideas: Why not go down into the old part of Sherman, where some old guy was selling a Civil War cannon -- buy the cannon and then have someone haul the cannon home? His parents lived on a hill overlooking a brand new multi-storied building across a grass field where the Sherman Bearcats practiced football. It was several hundred yards from his parents' home -- a little white frame home that faced this municipal building.

Dad bought the cannon for $4.50 (a princely sum in those days), and had a really nice, elderly black man, who owned a team of mules, haul the cannon to the edge of the bluff, in front of his parents' home. Dad secured the cannon so it wouldn't move, and then he ran around collecting 'cannon fodder' -- pieces of heavy chain, rocks, railroad spikes, ball bearings -- everything he could find to load up the cannon. Then, before loading the cannon, he inserted the make-shift container of gunpowder and wadding deep into the cannon. Next, he loaded up the cannon with the metal and rocks. Having done that, he and his friend, 'Punk Sladen', who was helping him in this venture, fashioned a fuse and inserted it into the cannon.

Now, my dad and Punk Sladen became a little nervous. This was the moment of truth. They looked out across the landscape (their imaginary battlefield), and saw that there were no humans or animals out in front of them. There was only the municipal building, severl hundred yards to the east. They lit the fuse....and ran!

Moments later, there was a terrific explosion, as the cannon disgorged its load of rocks and metal. The explosion was so loud it almost deafened them -- although they were at least 50 feet away when the cannon went off! They ran to the edge of the bluff, and looked out across the 'battlefield'. They saw the cloud of dust, where, not more than 200 yards out, the shrapnel hit the ground and kicked up a lot of dirt and dust. They were still jumping up and down, congratulating each other when the police arrived and confiscated the cannon!

It seems that the explosion had blown out nearly all of the windows-- hundreds of them -- in the newly constructed municipal building, on the side that faced the cannon. The boys' early military career ended as suddenly as soon as it started! They both got hard whippings when their respective dads came home from work.

They stayed out of trouble for awhile -- until their next caper --- hoisting a cow up on top of Sherman High School and leaving it there over the weekend. They got in trouble for that too....some kids' path to learning is longer than others! (Now, Jeff, you know where you 'got it!') :) -- Dad

She was perfect! She was my Mom

2008-09-18T04:03:00.000-07:00

My Mom, Edwina Margaret (McElroy) Shoemake, was a perfect woman. Oh, I know--none of us are truly perfect. I know the drill. Jesus was the only perfect person who ever walked the earth. Let me say this another way: apart from Jesus Christ, my Mom was the only perfect person I knew until I married Paula Ann Bryan. Then Paula became the second perfect person I have ever known. Like Glenn Beck says: 'Here's how I got there.'...

I want to tell you about my Mom. She spent the best years of her life raising her four children. We didn't have a lot of money, and Mom always put her kids first. She made sure we got new clothes, year after year when she rarely ever had anything nice to wear. She was always cooking --- man, could she cook. Maybe that's why most of her kids (okay, all four of us!) in our adult years looked like we were 'ready for market'. Our home always had the aroma of wonderful food -- and Mom could make the most wonderful desserts. Whenever people would come to our home, whether they were invited or not, Mom would serve food. She was so hospitable. People loved my Mom. She was always so happy, so cheerful, so optimistic. She was the ultimate 'glass half full' person!

In my entire life, I never heard my Mom ever say anything hurtful about anyone. I never saw her get angry and act in an inappropriate way. I never saw an act of selfishness on her part. I never saw a chink in her armor. Dad had a lot of flaws, as did all of their children. Mom, however, had NO discernible flaws. I always saw a lovely woman who devoted her entire life to other people. She was always sewing, cleaning, cooking, growing beautiful flowers -- making our home a wonderful place to be. She read to all of us when we were little -- books with illustrated Bible stories. She made sure we were always dressed in clean, nice clothes. The only words that came from her mouth were good things. Words to live by. She made sure we were at the church building every time the doors were open. She made sure that we spent time with people she approved of, and that we were involved with activities that were appropriate.

Mom was never part of the 'elite' at churches we attended. People thought well of Mom, but she never had time for the luncheons that a lot of the ladies enjoyed. Mom was always home, 'batting 'em back' as she used to say. That was a baseball term. Whatever life throws at you, you plant your feet and bat 'em back! Life was hard for my Mom, in a lot of ways. She wasn't treated like a Queen should be treated.

Because her back was always up against the wall, raising kids and then grandbabies, sometimes Mom couldn't go to Ladies Bible Class. On one occasion, one of the ladies at church, who was well-heeled and had a pretty comfortable life, and who had no children, chided Mom for having missed Ladies Bible Class. When she left our home, Mom simply said to us: "Shoot, I'd rather SEE a sermon than HEAR one...ANYDAY!" Then she went back to work, cooking, ironing and cleaning.... I still remember those words when I think of the difference between 'doers' and 'observers'. Mom was a 'DOER' and counted taking care of others as having a higher value than constantly trooping to a church building to sit in a chair and listen to others TALK ABOUT 'DOING'.

When all four of us were raised, marriages with a couple of the kids in our family did not work out, and Mom got to help raise another generation of kids in her home. She did so without complaint, and lavished the same love and attention on them that she did on her own children.

Later on, Mom's own Mom and her Mother-in-law (my two grandmothers), who were, by then in their '90s, needed special care. Mom brought them into her home and cared for them. During that time, my Dad had a number of strokes, and was confined to a wheelchair in their home. Mom was taking care of three invalids, and would not accept any help from anyone. When we would ask Mom she would simply say: 'No sir, this is MY honor, and MY duty.' It got to a point when Mom was having to feed all three of them. She bathed and dressed them. She refused to allow any of them to move to a 'retirement home.' Mom wanted them there in her home where she could provide for them, cook for them, spend time with them. The grandmothers lived to be almost 102 before they passed. Dad died August 1, 1998. After Dad was gone, Mom had no reason to keep going, and her mind began to slip. Mom lost 40 pounds, and lost interest in eating.

We brought Mom to Edmond, from Dallas, where she had lived for most of her adult life. Mom developed dementia, and her doctors were fairly certain that she had something they termed 'rapid onset Alzheimers.' The doctors told us that Mom could not live with us. We had Mom for another 4 1/2 years before we lost Mom. She spent her sweet life going about, always quietly doing the right thing. Mom was never a public figure, never had a career, never made the headlines, was not 'published'. The world never took note of her presence among us, or made any comment about her passing, but, I took note. My wife and kids took note. She was a treasure, in human form. I loved this little woman who took the words of Jesus Christ to heart. She truly lived for others. She lived her life in such a way that THE USE OF HER LIFE OUTLIVED HER LIFE! I want to be like that. I'll have more to share with you about Mom in the days ahead. I want you to know her too!

**********

Through my blog, I will introduce you to one of the most remarkable people who ever lived...my Mom. Then I want to introduce you to the only other person I've ever known who is, after 36 years of marriage, flawless in my eyes....Paula Ann! Our God must have known I needed a lot of help. He put two perfect women in my life! Thank you, Jesus!

A Young Married Party That Was Unique!

2008-09-17T19:43:00.000-07:00

During the 1970's, Paula and I were at a young married party at Bruce and Sherrill Kerr's home in Edmond. There were a lot of young couples there from Wilshire. Someone in the bunch knew that I spent some of my days in high school and college hypnotizing friends, and asked if I would hypnotize some of the people at the Kerr's home. I reluctantly agreed, because people sometimes get a little crazy at the thought of people being hypnotized --- they will usually have one of the following reactions: 1. not believe it's 'real' (meaning it's all faked) 2. not believe that I know how to pull it off (safely) 3. not trust that someone won't 'take advantage' of them while they're hypnotized 4. fear that they will say/do something embarrassing 5. wonder if they will somehow be permanently 'marked' or 'damaged' or 'permanently under someone else's control....and so on. Knowing that comments like these are inevitable, and knowing that I would have to address each of them made me not want to spend my fun evening with friends having to explain and reassure people. None of the guys wanted anything to do with it...I guess it was a macho thing...who knows? Maybe they didn't trust me and thought that I was some kind of nut. Who knows? Maybe I AM a little nutty. Anyway, six or seven of the young women wanted to be hypnotized, so I got their husbands and/or girlfriends to 'watch over' each of them, and we began.

Without boring you to tears, I will cut through the process, since telling it is a real snoozer. To make a long story a little shorter, several of the ladies could not relax and concentrate and did not make good 'subjects.' Several of them did. I won't tell the names here but if you have lived in Edmond very long, you know of a couple of these ladies, since a couple of them are fairly well-known. A couple of them have husbands who are very well-known locally. We were all young marrieds in the Wilshire congregation in OKC.

There are always a lot of skeptics when hypnosis is performed in settings like this---people who really don't believe it...or don't want to believe it. You can imagine.
There are conservatives who believe that it is the work of Satan. Some people believe that it is only the 'weak-minded' who could possibly be hypnotized. I've heard it all over the years, and for this reason, this was one of the last 'group' sessions I've had anything to do with.

As the ladies 'progressed' through what I call 'layers' of receptivity to suggestions of relaxation, it was apparent that the skeptics were going to see manifestations of the ladies' receptivity to suggestion. I asked several of the ladies who were not involved directly in the session to pick up one of the ladies and place her head on a Samsonite chair and her heels on another samsonite chair (don't worry -- she was wearing jeans -- no embarrassment for anyone) and while they had her suspended momentarily, I gave this one lady suggestions that her body was as stiff as an ironing board. She responded appropriately. I then asked the ladies who had lifted her to release her and everyone saw that she was now suspended between the two chairs, with no sign of tension or trembling. She appeared to be asleep, but was not. She was very much awake, and her senses were not hyper-sensitive. She heard everything, but had her eyes closed. (Later on she disclosed to everyone that she thought she was 'going along with the whole thing', and could have decided to not cooperate at any time). The couples in the room were shocked and in disbelief!

I then gave her suggestions that she would only hear the sound of my voice. At that point, she could no longer hear the giggles and laughter, and expressions of awe and disbelief from the other onlookers around the room. They watched her remain motionless between the two chairs -- head on one and heels on the other -- stretched out like an ironing board. If you think this is not difficult, try it. It's imposssible for someone in the 'waking state' to do such a thing.

There were still a few skeptics, so I then asked another lady -- Kathy McDonald (the wife at the time, of Mike McDonald) to sit on the lady's mid-section. She did, and the lady who was stretched out there as stiff as a board, did not even show any strain at all. Then I asked the lady upon whom Kathy sat, to sing a song. She did so, with no strain in her voice. This convinced even the die-hard skeptics. Again, this is impossible for someone in the natural state to accomplish. Your body won't allow it!

We then let the 'ironing board lady' relax, and went on to one of the other ladies, and asked her to recall things earlier than her 'waking memory' would allow. We asked her specific questions, and later, when she was 'awakened', we had her call her mother to question her mother about events in her life prior to age 2. Her mother verified what her daughter had told us, and everyone thought that was cool.
All that stuff is in ones' mind, waiting to be recalled! Under hypnosis, peoples' ability to recall is astonishing.

We did some other things that were fun and I told them about another time we had done this with some of the high school kids when we hosted a class party in our home. These were high school kids at Wilshire where we were involved with the youth. There were probably 30 or so high school kids there on a winter night. On young man -- 'Mark' (we'll call him Mark, since that was his real name) came in from running around outside with a couple of the other guys, doing what high school guys do when there are a bunch of guys and girls together at a party ---showing off! He came in, hot and sweaty and wanted to be hypnotized. So we did just that. It was 'suggested' to Mark that he was becoming very, very cold...and in a few minutes, his lips and finger tips turned cyanotic (bluish), and we could not detect a pulse. His skin turned a waxy color, when, moments before, it was reddish, from all the running around outside. Then we threw a handkerchief over his shirt and told him that it was an electric blanket on 'high' and he was burning up from the heat. Immediately the flush returned to his face and he began sweating profusely. As usual, when we were ready to return someone to the waking state, we always gave suggestions that the person hypnotized would awaken refreshed and feeling great. He was given suggestions that when this was over he would awaken, refreshed. When he returned to the 'waking state', he said that he felt that he had been asleep all night! He felt great.

We had other kids memorizing pages from magazines and doing some other 'mental' things that cannot be faked, just as Mark's response to the 'cold' and 'heat' suggestions could not be faked.

It has always been amazing to me that our God, who made us the way we are, put into each of us such a vast, largely untapped reservoir of potential. We barely understand the rudiments of the workings of our bodies and our minds, and hypnosis offers a tiny glimpse into the power of our minds over our bodies.

I wanted to share this, since hypnosis is largely understood. It is often cloaked in mystery and fear and will, many times, evoke a sort of nervous disbelief when it comes up in conversation with people. I suppose that, like many other things --that if 'I didn't experience it, then it's not real'! People, it's REAL. It's interesting. It's fun. Check it out!

Gene

Dallas Twister, 1957

2008-09-15T19:55:00.000-07:00

Last year, during the summer, I got a telephone call from the Dallas Morning News. They were canvassing students of Sunset High School in Oak Cliff, who were in school anywhere in Oak Cliff during 1957. They were looking for people who remembered or had actually seen the 1957 Oak Cliff tornado. I told the reporter that I had in fact seen it --- even experienced it! He asked me if I would tell my story.

I told the reporter that I had not only seen it, but had been stuck in a bus, while out on a shopping trip with my older sister, Nancy, in downtown Dallas. I was thirteen years old and did not particularly feel the need for my sister to take me shopping for clothes. It was probably a good thing, though, since my taste in clohes, then as well as now, is pretty bad. Now that I'm an old guy, I've about quit trying to buy clothes for myself or my wife, since all of it will be returned, except the occasionaly package of white hankerchiefs or a few pairs of socks. I do shop well for my wife, however, if I limit my purchases to the 'tried and true' items. Over the years, I have become a real connoisseur of fine dark chocolates and I have the good eye of an Amsterdam gem merchant for nice jewelry! I've never made a bad purchase of those two items! Paula has enjoyed two pounds of Russell Stover's chocolates (she prefers the dark chocolates) every month for the 36 years we've been married. Now --back to the tornado....

We were heading back toward home on W. 10th Street when all of us on the bus saw the tornado! It was heading right down a street toward us. The bus driver panicked and wanted to 'step on the gas', but other drivers also panicked and their panic-button caused some of them to stop. People couldn't get away from the tornado, so they were getting out of their vehicles and attempting to run away from the tornado. It was still marching down a street, directly toward us. In just moments, it was upon us. My last 'mental movie' of the tornado was a swirling mass of very dark green (almost black) devastation, swooping right at us! There was a house -- then there was no house! Bricks, boards, trees, trash cans, fences, all kinds of debris was being swept right toward the bus. I saw boards thrown into homes -- and boards sticking out of brick chimneys where they had been thrown like spears! Bricks flying down the street like autumn leaves. We all knew that we would be wiped out, but it was upon us so quickly we could not have exited the bus and run away. (Run away! Run away WHERE??). The tornado was huge. As it towered over the bus, it suddenly lifted, and went directly over the bus. Our ears felt like they would burst, from the change in air pressure and the incredible noise. Screaming metal (I never knew that metal could actually scream!) and debris everywhere! We were in a large intersection on West Jefferson, and the tornado went over the bus and then ripped a telephone pole out of the ground, and threw it like a javelin right through a new black Ford automobile, whose driver had abandoned the vehicle in the middle of the intersection and had run for his life! The telephone pole shot through the car and was more or less suspended by the floorboard of the automobile. If the driver had remained with his vehicle the telephone pole would have cut him in half. We watched as the tornado continued on its path, until the volume of debris blocked a clear view of the tornado as it roared on through Oak Cliff.

Our bus driver had to get out of the bus and stand for a few minutes in order to calm down. My sister was embarrassed, as she wet her pants out of fear. Pretty embarrassing, as she was nineteen, going on 30! What a day! What a shopping trip THAT turned out to be.

The reporter for the Dallas Morning News put part of my long story in the paper. I was pretty excited --- MY 15 MINUTES OF FAME, or so I thought! I bought a copy of the paper and, noticed that most of the really good stuff had been left out of the article. .....I guess that's SHOW BIZ, right?

Braniff Flight 352, May 3, 1968

2008-09-14T18:53:00.000-07:00

After falling out of the Learning Center 3rd floor window on 12-1-1966, which was a Thursday night, at 8 p.m., I spent a long time in and out of Baptist Hospital in OKC, having one surgery after another. (I joke now about having been OCC's first 'REAL dropout!'). While recuperating from my 5th surgery (radial nerve surgery on my right arm), I took some tests, submitted to an extensive background check, and was hired by Dow Chemical Company in Freeport, Texas. I worked there for a year and a half, until I was healed sufficiently to return to classes at OCC in order to get my degree, a B.S. in Biology.

I missed my friends at OCC, and one week I asked my supervisor for permission to come into work early, on Friday, May 3, 1968, so I could leave an hour early in the afternoon. I was also given permission to miss my lunch, and I picked up another hour, so I could now leave two hours earlier than the usual clock-out time on the day shift. By the time I was able to leave, I was ravenously hungry, so I stopped at a little hamburger place in Freeport. One of our Lake Jackson C. of C. members worked there -- a sweet little 16 year old blond-headed, blue-eyed girl. We talked for awhile and I took too long eating my hamburger and when I noticed the time, I had to drive fast to Hobby Airport in South Houston, for the first leg of my flight to OKC. I was heading to OKC (it was Friday) and I planned on a big date with a beautiful girl at OCC that evening.

I parked my car at Hobby airport and went running with my carry-on to the Braniff ticket counter. I arrived, all out of breath, and, fearing that I had for certain missed my flight to Dallas, I asked the man at the ticket counter if I had missed my flight --- Braniff flight 352 (I was then going to ask if there were other flights I might be able to take, in order to get to OKC that evening). The man looked at me strangely. He then turned to the two women ticket agents standing there with him. They all exchanged looks, and something didn't seem right. All three of them looked curiously pale.

The male ticket agent then looked at me and said: 'Son, you missed your flight. You better be glad you did---Flight 352 has crashed in Dawson, Texas and we fear that all 85 people aboard have been killed.'

I thanked him and walked slowly out of the airport, back to my powder blue, '68 Ford Mustang, got in and drove to OKC. I missed having a date that Friday night, but, late that night, well after midnight, I pulled into OKC. I was so grateful to be 'home', and I felt SO VERY ALIVE. Life was such a precious thing, and I had almost lost my life again. I was still crippled from the fall out of the window at OCC in 1966, and felt so very fragile, and yet, at the same time, so very fortunate. I thanked God often during the 9 hour drive to OKC from Freeport, and I've thanked God so many times since then for his care and keeping.

Years later, around 1986, while relating this story to Ronnie White, (our minister while we were members at Quail Springs Church of Christ), during lunch together at Bennigan's on May Ave., he at first had a surprised look on his face -- then got quiet and then told me that Marsha, his lovely wife, had also missed that same flight! What an amazing coincidence! I had not met Marsha and Ronnie in 1968, and only met Marsha 17 years later at Quail Springs. I have thought about and have wondered about what I feel is God's Providence at work in my life and Marsha's life. Why were we spared? We were no more special than any of the other people who died that day. I didn't understand then. Still don't.

Sometimes His Providence is not so dramatic; sometimes we don't understand or acknowledge His direction in our lives. I have to say, though, that God is so real to me. I am certain of His Providence in my life -- and yours.

This year marks the 40th anniversary of the crash of the Braniff L-188 Electra "II" at 4:37 p.m. on May 3rd, in Dawson, Texas. But for God's Providence and a nice conversation with a little blue-eyed, blond-headed angel from the Lake Jackson Church of Christ, I would not be here today! Thank you, Lord!

Trapped in a freezer!

2008-09-14T09:58:00.000-07:00

Back in the '60's--- 1963, I think, I worked one summer at an un-named (you'll see why later) dairy in Dallas, TX., in Oak Cliff. It wasn't a wonderful job, but it gave me a little spending money. I didn't own a car, so my Mom took me to work and brought me home at night, when my shift ended. I worked in the 'quick freeze' room, which was an auditorium-sized room where ice cream and popsicles entered the room on steel rollers through tiny holes in walls that were, to my the best of my memory, something like four feet thick. Ice cream, in cartons wrapped with brown paper, came in from the plant where it was frozen rock hard in a very short period of time. The turbine-forced wind whipped through the freezer like a Arctic gale, and the temperature was kept way, way below zero. I don't want to exaggerate this part, and my memory may be faulty, but if memory serves me correctly, the temperature was somewhere between 25 and 40 below zero. We had to wear special suits and masks and goggles, along with huge, thick gloves. We could only work for about 40 minutes at a time until we had to leave the freezer to warm up outside. When inside the freezer, our eyelashes iced up from the condensation due to breathing. The hair in our nostrils (I know..this is GROSS!) were like little ice picks and tore at the insides of our noses. All in all it was miserable work.

I worked with some pretty 'raw-around-the-edges' men, and it was not uncommon to see men standing on top of a 15-ft. high mountain of stacked packages of frozen ice cream, relieving themselves rather than taking the time to go outside in the summer heat, while cocooned in the heavy insulated suits, to take care of 'business'. It was disgusting to see urine, frozen solid in mid-air, fall to the floor and break like glass icicles all over the floor, and on the brown paper wrappers that enclosed the cartons of ice cream.

It was bitter cold in the freezer, with the wind howling ferociously, and snow falling from the moisture emanating from the multiple steel rollers laden with hot ice cream entering the quick-freeze room. The very hot ice cream gave off moisture due to the pasteurizing process in the plant. The moisture made large quantities of blinding snow. The effect, I imagine, was rather like being at the North Pole in the winter! Our job was that of stacking the packages of ice cream that, only minutes before, had entered the room at a very hot temperature and was now frozen solid in this 'quick-freeze' room. We stacked the ice cream, in these brown paper packages, about 15 feet high and four feet wide, making 'stairs' as we worked our way up to the top of each row. We would leave enough room from one stack to the next, to allow a man to walk between the rows to shovel snow and pick up the occasional broken packages of ice cream containers. We scooped it all up-- snow, broken packages of ice cream, popsicles, fudgesicles, dixie cups--and, yes, even the 'yellow ice' and unceremoniously tossed all of it into 55 gallon drums, for disposal.

One night, near the end of my shift, I lost track of time and failed to leave with the other men. I headed to the door, to leave for the evening, and found it locked...from the outside. I began pounding on the door, but the doors were massively thick. No one could hear me! The thought occurred to me that I could die right there among the frozen treats! Realizing that no one was coming for me and that one could not live long in the freezer, I did the only thing that made sense to me. I climbed up on the steel rollers at the other end of the freezer -- (the steel rollers that continued out the other side of the huge freezer--- rollers that were used to run the packaged ice cream through the four-foot thick walls and into the 18-wheelers docked there for the loading of the ice cream for distribution to stores in the area). As I tried to enter the small opening into the wall with my heavy clothing and parka, I realized that I could not fit into the opening in the wall. (For the smart alecks among you, you need to know that I only weighed 145 pounds back then! I know what you're thinking). I decided to do something that I thought was the only thing I could do. I took off the heavy suit and parka--my protection against unbelievable cold and wind-- and scooted face down up the steel rollers toward the tiny door in the wall. I knew that this door was only about one foot in thickness, but that it was likely also locked. I looked around for something to use to pound on the door when I scooted up the steel rollers through the four feet to the tiny door. There was nothing. You can't pound very hard with popsicles and ice cream cartons! I then planned to pound on the door with my hands, hoping that someone would be outside and would hear me and get help. I pounded for a long time, and could tell that I was rapidly succumbing to hypothermia. I had never been so cold in my life and my skin was sticking to the steel rollers. Thinking that I had made a mistake, I tried to back down the steel rollers but could not --- I was stuck inside the narrow chamber! Great! Now I was in a real pickle! I couldn't go forward and couldn't back down into the main part of the freezer. I couldn't move to try to keep warm, and with my heavy clothing and parka left behind, I knew I would die quickly.

I began pounding on the tiny door again, knowing that if I could not get someone to hear me, that I would be dead in minutes. Finally, after having almost given up on the idea of a rescue, I heard noises around the little door in front of my face. My Mom, sitting in the parking lot in her 1962 Biscayne Chevrolet, had been asking people in the parking lots if they had seen me. No one had. Mom paced back and forth outside the exit door from the freezer and as she walked by the area where the little doors were located, she heard a faint sound. She heard me pounding on the door. Mom got someone from inside the plant to come out and open the locked door and when the little door was unlocked and opened, there I was, my frozen face staring up at them!

Men opened up the freezer room and pulled me back down the steel rollers and I was saved! The same Mom who had given me life in 1944, gave me life again when I was 19!

A few more minutes of that cold, with the incredible gale-force of forced air sucking the heat out of me would have killed me in a few more minutes. When the men rescued me from the freezer, I was so cold I could barely move. I fully expected parts to start falling off of my body! I recovered from the places where my skin had frozen to the steel rollers, and did not care for ice cream and other frozen treats for a long, long time.

Even today, when I see someone enjoying a frozen treat, I will think back to that hot summer, when I almost became a blond-headed popsicle! My ordeal gave a whole new meaning to the term "freezer burn". Words and phrases such as giving someone a 'cold shoulder' or an 'icy stare',...or 'frozen in time'...or, the overused 'freeze, mister!'...all have a different meaning for me now...and those, my friends, are just the cold, hard facts!

Be cool! ---Gene :)

The Legendary Ft. Worth Cardinals

2008-09-07T19:50:00.000-07:00

O.K....I wasn't going to tell this, but the OU and OSU frenzy is pushing me over the edge again, so here it is....

When Paula and I were newlyweds, at the Wilshire C of C., we tried to fit into the young married crowd, but had a hard time. I was 28 and Paula was 20 (a mere child). I was too old for that newlywed crowd, and Paula was too young. Also, we didn't have any children...we only had a cat. When the couples went on and on about their babies, we could only talk about our cat (what my son Jeff is going through with his new bride, Candita, except that they have two little miniature Schnauzers and some chickens...yes, you heard me...chickens). Anyway, we tried to fit in. I quickly found, however, that when we went to church parties, the guys would cluster around a television set and become downright rabid over whatever sport was the flavor of the day and the women would run off to the kitchen and talk about babies, labor pains, breast feeding and stinky diapers. I grew up never seeing a sporting event until I went to college, since I had to work and help 'bring home the bacon', so, I never developed any particular frenzy over any sport. I was, therefore, not comfortable with EITHER group of people at the parties, but I did want to fit in and have friends.

To fit in and feel halfway normal with all the talk you hear when you turn on a radio or t.v. when a sporting event is being broadcast, you've got to understand the lingo: "Yeah, our offense was better than their defense and that offside kick got us 2 for 4, with only 16 interceptions before the time-out at the middle of the 1st quarter of the 3rd quadrant"...and the like. Oh, and not to forget the inevitable endless, repetitive interviews, with some guy with a sub-moronic monotone, staring glassy-eyed into the twilight zone and telling the interviewer: "Yeah, and we want to win...and stuff....and..you know....yeah, man...it's cool...you know? Yeah, man, we gon' doo it....and stuff." ...and a thousand other really, deeply intelligent comments....that make you want to scramble for a paper and pencil, so you can record those immortal words for posterity.

Nonetheless, I still wanted to fit in, so, in desperation, I decided that if you can't whip 'em, join 'em. I did the only thing I could do...I INVENTED MY OWN SPORTS TEAM!! I called it the Fort Worth Cardinals. I made up names of the team owners, the general manager, the coaches, and all the players. I made up (on the spot), all the team stats, and when the conversation about sports started up, I would join in with: 'Hey, how about them Cardinals?!! Did you guys catch that game last night?' No matter what sport their team played last night, the Cardinals also played and won by a bigger point spread. I casually, and boastfully threw out the names of players, coaches, managers and owners -- with whom I enjoyed long friendships. I bragged about dinners and parties we attended together, trips that Paula and I went on with these guys and their wives and girlfriends.

Not satisfied with my 'instant acceptance' into the world of sportsminded young married friends, I went a step further. I had a ballcap and t-shirt made up with FWC (Fort Worth Cardinals) emblazoned on the front, with my name on the back! I stuck a can of Skoal into my back jeans pocket, and tried to walk with the 'sports-guy swagger', whose team was smokin' everybody's chili every night of the week!!!

My greatest thrill, after introducing the Fort Worth Cardinals to my friends at the Wilshire church, was in having people like Ray Vaughn and Larry Olsen come up to me and ask me how the Cardinals were doing! I would flip on my 'sports guy' persona and start saying: "Hey, man...we're gonna win...and stuff!!...know what I mean?....yeah, man!!....we're gon doo it!"

It's now been 36 years and I still occasionally get a 'hit' on the illustrious 'Fort Worth Cardinals' by one of my die-hard sports friends from the '70's. My friends saw through the ruse, of course, but I got an 'A' for effort, and although they no doubt thought I was a brick short of a load at the time, I eventually was accepted into the 'sports club' here in Edmond. Whenever you run into Ray Vaughn or Larry Olsen, Bob or Larry Forrester, ask them about the 'Cardinals...Shoemake's very own, Fort Worth Cardinals!

Remembering Hurricane Carla

2008-08-31T13:11:00.000-07:00

Watching the imminent arrival of Gustav this afternoon made me remember the arrival, on September 10, 1961, of Hurricane Carla. The day before it hit, we drove over to Galveston, from our home in La Marque, Texas, 14 miles away. The waves were hitting the seawall and throwing waves of water -- not only over our heads, but over the entire street that ran along the seawall. We felt a little like surfers, 'shooting the pipe'--- enveloped in a 'pipe' of water, completely enveloped by water, )except that we were standing on solid ground, and surfers have water completely around them). Water spray was thrown from the seawall onto the Galvez Hotel almost a block away from the seawall! I was a senior in high school and had never seen anything like this in my life!When the waves hit the seawall, the ground shook from the force of the water smashing into the concrete. It was awe-inspiring! We were drenched with seawater, but were transfixed by the power of the storm. The water would pull away from the seawall, just in time for the slamming of another wave into the wall. We went home, and the next day, I was outside our home and it fell very quiet. I looked off into the distance, and saw only a thin purple line on the horizon. You could hear a pin drop, it seemed, a block away. Birds weren't flying. Dogs weren't barking. It was so quiet and everything was so still. The leaves weren't moving in the trees. The purple line grew taller and taller. Then the purple line became a towering line, and we knew that Hurricane Carla was coming. Then came the wind and the rain. The wind grew and became a screaming torrent, like the rain. I could hear gravel, from the roofs of surrounding homes, hitting the sides of our house, stripping the exterior of our home like only winds of over 150 miles per hour can do so. I saw sheet metal flying down the street, hitting and then decapitating small trees. The winds were so loud that, in our home, we had to talk loudly to each other to even be heard. Finally, the eye of the hurricane arrived, and alll was calm and quiet again...for awhile. The authorities came through the neighborhoods of LaMarque and, with loudspeakers on the top of their automobiles, told everyone to leave-- immediately. We left---slowly, in our old Cadillac -- heading for Houston. We drove through water that looked like it would flood out the engine on the car. It didn't do that, but it did come into the car. We kept on driving away from the coast, heading towards Houston. Hours later, as we arrived in Houston, at the home of one of my dad's relatives, near Hobby airport, the eye of the storm had passed and the storm intensified suddenly again, with the wind now coming from the opposite direction. Ferocious winds and rain came at us again. We heard on the radio that tornadoes had been spotted in the area, so family members stationed themselves at the front and rear of the home, near windows. Below-ground shelters did not exist in Houston at the time, and they would have not been sufficient for such a huge population anyway. While we were watching the storm, tornadoes were spotted from both the front and rear of the home at the same time! We just knew that we would all be killed, but we rode out the storm safely. Several days passed before the left of the water in the street in front of the home where we had taken refuge had subsided enough to allow us to make our way home to La Marque. While we had waited for the flood waters to subside, we watched people run up and down the street in their speed boats. They couldn't get to work, so they enjoyed running about the streets of Houston in their boats!As we slowly returned to La Marque, we passed amazing sights -- huge buildings, trees, homes, cars-- that had been swept away during the hurricane and had been deposited along the highway, randomly, like so many building blocks, scattered by a child at play. We passed one home and saw a concrete and steel suspension bridge, that had been deposited in a man's front yard! We also saw men, scrambling around in the flood waters, frantically grabbing the property that belonged to other people, and claiming 'salvage rights' to what they could grab. We saw two men in a fist-fight over a large boat to which they both laid claim. When we returned to our home, there was not much left. Our home was only about 14 miles from Galveston and there were no seawalls or other protection from the high water. The high water had been in our home and there was nothing left. We had dead fish, a dead snake, piles and piles of stinking mud on the floors. The walls had gotten soaked with water and the sheetrock had fallen. The ceilings were covered with mildew. Everything was ruined. Everything of value was gone. The entire neighborhood was destroyed. Hurricane Carla slammed into our little piece of the Gulf coast as a category four hurricane (and was a category 5 storm before it hit land)-- and was remembered as the strongest hurricane to ever hit the Gulf coast.I feel badly for the people who are facing their own version of Hurricane Carla this week. My prayers are for them and all the suffering and all of the loss they will experience.

What is it with kids?

2008-08-27T03:56:00.000-07:00

On a recent blog, I shared the story of Gena's 'thing' for frogs. I didn't tell the whole story...When Gena and Jeff were both very little, and had those shrill, shrieky-high-pitched voices that little kids have -- you know, the kind of voices that can shatter windows when they squeal or scream -- they BOTH learned how to use that ability that mainly tiny folks have, to acquire a skill that I have never before heard attributed to humankind. They learned how to call frogs! We have always had frogs in our backyard in the summer (I told Paula that would happen if she left the water running for weeks on end!), and the kids loved the frogs but had trouble finding them on their own. One evening, when the frogs were speaking to one another with those sweet strains that cause only other frogs' hearts to beat wildly, Gena and Jeff began emulating those frog trills. They would run back and forth across our backyard with a peculiar set to their jaws that allowed them to force the frog-trills from their mouths. Their blood veins would stand out on their necks from the effort. The neighbors -- mostly nice, quiet people, just minding their own business, probably thought we were all crazy. The frog calling went on intermittently all summer...for several summers, until the thrill of frog-calling gave way to...who knows? Who can know where this stuff comes from...and where it goes. In that respect, it's like the wind. The Bible tells us that we don't know where IT comes from, either...or where IT goes.I do know, however, that for our little corner of the world during those years, we had a huge frog population in our backyard. We found frogs everywhere...they even ended up in our pool on occasion. Not toads, mind you, but frogs --- big, green, strong-swimming frogs. This unusual congregation of frogs made me wonder if during all that 'trilling for frogs' (like 'trolling' for fish, but with high-pitched noise for bait), maybe Gena and Jeff were inadvertently trilling Woodstock-like frog-words and frog-thoughts, that inadvertently were trumpeting to all the frogs in the vicinity to come to a frog love-in! The long strings of frog eggs often appeared in the rain water on our pool cover, and this had never happened prior to the frog-trilling of Gena and Jeff.This ability to call frogs is no doubt a very unusual ability. I wonder if it might turn out to one day become an Olympic event! Hmmm-mm! During and following the frog-trilling era at the Shoemske's home, we often went out for dinner. Invariably, Jeff, who was a little guy at the time, would often boldly speak up when the waitress asked us what we wanted for dinner, and would ask, with a serious, almost adult look on his face: "Do you have any frog legs?" He would ask this every time, although he had never ---EVER--- eaten frog legs. The waitresses would always give him a curious, blank look, before telling him that no, at this particular restaurant (hamburger joint), we don't have frog legs. Jeff would feign disappointment but then, always a good sport, would wolf down his hamburger and fries. This has been, like all of my blog-stories, a true story. Ask Jeff and Gena. You may even get a grown-up version of a truly unique (redundant) frog-trill. Maybe you can take that home and teach your kids how to creat an amphibian rock concert event in YOUR backyard!

Gena's love affair with frogs

2008-08-21T13:06:00.000-07:00

Back in the '80s, when Gena was a little girl, I came home from an out-of-town trip and walked into our home, carrying my briefcase and luggage. I could tell that my little family was home, but they were out in the back yard, so I headed toward the back door, calling out to Paula and the kids. Suddenly, Gena streaked past the back door, in her shorts and t-shirt. She had a huge grin on her face and the most excited look I had ever seen in her eyes as she paused for a millisecond to greet me and then raced on past the back door, holding the most enormous bullfrog I had ever seen in my life. Not a little toad, mind you, but a huge green bullfrog. She changed expression in that same millisecond, to reassure her dumbfounded dad. Her little eyebrows twisted a little, in that little-girl attempt at seriousness and grown-up-ishness as she said, very matter-of-factly: "I'm not a tomboy, dad---I just love frogs!" Then she continued running barefooted, in a generally southern direction, to join Jeff in their amphibious pursuits. All I heard was shrieking and giggling. It had been a hard week, but all the concerns of the week melted away instantly with that little gap-toothed grin, in a little face, full of freckles with blond hair, and big, bright blue eyes, reassuring her daddy that she was NOT a tomboy...she just loved frogs! You gotta love it!

Another sweet memory!

Dad

You tell ME what they were

2008-08-13T19:55:00.000-07:00

On a warm day in 1954, in Houston, TX., southwest of the downtown area, just outside a beautiful neighborhood called River Oaks, I had just awakened from my usual mandatory afternoon nap. I was ten years old. I wandered outside to find, up and down Elmen Street where we lived, little 'knots' of people standing in front yards and out in the street, looking up. Some people had stopped their cars-- right in the middle of the street. Some car doors stood ajar. Everyone was looking up. I wondered what was going on, so I wandered over to one of the groups of people and I too, looked up. Finally I saw what everyone was staring at. A small group of cylinder-shaped objects-- black on one side, and silver on the other side, rotating slowly along the long axis of the cylinders. They were otherwise motionless, and had no wings, no exhaust coming from them, and most importantly, no noise. No markings of any kind. They just sat there -- high in the sky, with the sunlight on them, slowly rotating---black, then silver, then black, then silver. As they rotated, the sunlight reflected off of the shiny, silver portions of the objects. As the hundreds of people stared straight up, the objects finally, with precision, and in a tight grouping, took off! They raced across the sky, disappearing from sight....again, with no noise and no exhaust. Then they raced back across the sky and sat up there again, slowly rotating like black and silver cigars. Every now and then they would take off and as they rapidly moved across the cloudless sky, they sometimes abruptly changed direction, and began moving sideways-- still in formation. They didn't inscribe a sweeping turn, as I now know that most aircraft would have to do when making a high speed change in direction. They just abruptly began moving in a different direction -- perpendicular to the direction they had been traveling. They moved at an incredible speed, often disappearing from sight within a few seconds. This went on all afternoon. People all over Houston, Texas saw the same spectacle. It was in the Houston Chronicle, of course, but there was never any explanation. I don't know what I saw. How do you explain the unexplainable? I saw it, but have no clue what tens of thousands of people saw that day. It doesn't fit into any frame of reference that I have, but I will never forget that day. Maybe YOU can tell ME what they were!

My 'dog day' of summer!

2008-08-08T19:04:00.000-07:00

It was 1974. Paula and I had been married almost two years. After a year of being dorm parents at OCC, we moved to an apartment on Britton Road, just off Broadway Extension. It had a pool, a clubhouse and everything. We were in tall cotton! No kids, no pets, and lots of time to spend together. Life was great! Often, when the weather was nice, we would take our 10-speed bikes down the stairs and go for bike rides all over the Britton area.

During the bike rides, we often rode up and down the east/west streets near our apartment. One evening we were chased by a large dog of unknown heritage....deep, threatening growls, aggressive and downright mean. Did I mention that Cujo was unchained? He chased us for a long distance, and we could never shake him. I told Paula to ride in front of me (the chivalrous thing to do..."you go ahead, honey --- let me field the dogs!"). The hair was standing on the back of our necks. Hearts pounding, and with white-knuckles seizing the handlebars, we raced to get away from Cujo. Paula later told me that she was not as worried as I was. She told me that she knew she didn't have to outrun Cujo on her bike...she only had to outrun me! (Such care and compassion from a loving wife! Are there no bounds to this woman's love for her husband?). Anyway, we finally got away. That ruined the bike ride for the evening.

Arriving back at our apartment, I stewed in my juices for awhile before coming up with a solution. I would teach that dog a lesson. I'll fix his clock! The next evening, having oiled and tightened all the nuts and bolts on my bike, I set out for a solo mission in 'enemy territory' (the devil dog's very own neighborhood). I had saved some used large syringes from my days at Dow Chemical which I now used as 'oil cans' for tiny motors, hinges, etc. I cleaned one of them out and filled the syringe with ammonia and then rubber-banded the 'loaded' syringe to the frame of my bike and headed for Cujo's house. I waited till dark, thinking that the cover of darkness would cover my crime. I headed down Cujo's street, making noise so I would not fail to attract his attention. I was afraid of Cujo, so I was ripping along at a pretty good clip (not that I could even think of outrunning him). Just like in your nightmares, you cannot outrun Cujo...or any other monster, for that matter.

Suddenly I heard the rapid, metallic sound of toenails on pavement! Cujo was coming for me! I ripped the syringe away from the rubber bands, stuck the business end of the syringe in my teeth to pull the cap off the syringe (like I had seen John Wayne and Clint Eastwood yank the pins from many a grenade in war movies). Feeling scared but a little heroic, I yanked the cap off of the syringe while hearing Cujo's heavy breathing and 'toenail staccato chatter' getting closer and closer, coming up on me from behind. At this point I'm thinking: 'he's gonna get his...he's gonna get his.' At the same time I'm also running another loop in my mind: 'Please don't let him get me, please don't let him get me! I had a mental image of Cujo rolling around on the grass, using his nose as a shovel, trying to deal with the ammonia. The other simultaneous mental image playing in my mental theater, was that of Cujo pinning me to the pavement, saliva dripping from his fangs as he savagely torn off every one of my limbs!

As I pulled the syringe away from my teeth, leaving the cap between my teeth, I inadvertently pushed a little too hard on the plunger and SHOT MYSELF IN THE EYES WITH THE AMMONIA MEANT FOR CUJO!

Eyes screaming in pain, I went down, bicycle, Cujo and all, skidmarks of flesh (mine, not Cujo's) on the pavement, slamming into and then bounding right over a curb, eventually coming to a stop in someone's front yard. Cujo knew I was a goner so either he felt sorry for me or did not like the smell of ammonia that was all over me. I staggered around in the general direction of the front of the house where I had crashed, blinded by the ammonia, looking for water. The pain was unbearable. I couldn't see Cujo and I couldn't really even see the house, except vaguely. Finally locating the faucet, I turned on the water and hosed my face for a long time, flushing my eyes. Later on, realizing that Cujo had disappeared, I walked my more-or-less wrecked bicycle home. My swollen, bloodshot eyes burned for days.

Having to tell everyone I met --- for days, what I had done to myself was humiliating. What an humbling experience-- dog-gone it all!

When you get a little too sure of yourself -- or when you decide to take vengeance into your own hands, take heed--- lest YOU fall...or crash! Stunts like this only work in the movies.

Wind in my hair!

2008-08-07T21:01:00.000-07:00

It was 1985. I had just wrapped up a sale of high tech data com switching equipment to American Airlines' Engineering Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It had taken a year of constant work and I had just put a bow on the deal -- $2.5 million of intelligent switches and 'lightning fast' 2400 bps synchronous modems. I had just earned a $60,000 commission. That was a lot of money back then (still is, I guess) and I was basking in a case of the 'terminal grins'! Driving back to my motel room, on the north side of Tulsa, I passed a roller rink. I don't know why I stopped. Impulse, I guess. It was late afternoon and the place was pretty much empty. I had always wanted a pair of street skates but had never felt like I could blow $150 bucks for something so frivolous, esp. since I had a wife and two little kids at home. At the moment, however, I was living large, due to the culmination of a great sale, and was about to burst with excitement. I spotted a pair of black 'speed skates' with lime green wheels and lime green laces. I had to have them, so I walked out with them, and headed straight to my motel room, where I strapped those babies on and went out for a test ride, on the service road of I-244 during the evening rush hour. I was at the top of a hill, headed in an easterly direction, dressed in a pair of black gym shorts and an over sized swim suit cover that my wife had made for me. After heading briefly uphill, I decided to turn around and head downhill and put my new 'ride' through the paces. Very quickly I picked up a lot of speed. I had hair then and the wind was blowing my hair back and I felt so free! I was flying downhill. My reverie was quickly interrupted, however, when I looked a little further downhill and saw pretty heavy traffic heading north and southbound at the end of my little section of service road. I wasn't worried --- yet---but lifted one skate and dropped the toe onto the pavement, to slow down. Nothing happened. I was flying downhill and going so fast that the brake was ineffective. I panicked. I couldn't do anything to slow down and I was plummeting into an imagined T-bone with a 40 mph 2-ton automobile at the light! I looked around and all I saw was my imminent death and destruction--- teeth, hair, eyeballs and my black and lime green skates, all over the street!

Suddenly I spotted -- right before the intersection (and certain death!), a pile of gravel on the right side of the street -- in a little triangular area between two lanes --where traffic could continue across the north/south street, or turn right and head south. You've seen those little piles of gravel, full of pieces of glass, bottle caps, bits of this and that. I did the only thing I could do ---I steered straight into the gravel.

The skates stopped immediately....I, however, continued forward at great speed, doing a head over heels maneuver worthy of a Bruce Lee movie. I was airborne for awhile, it seems, before landing -- then sliding on my backside through a lot of gravel and then across a good bit of pavement. Flat on my back, with the wind knocked right out of me, I couldn't move -- or breathe-- for what seemed like a long time. I thought: 'I'm dead...and I've ruined my new skates.' I thought of Paula, Gena and Jeff and just knew that I'd never see them again. Then I noticed, as I lay flat on my back, out in the street, that I was looking up at a telephone pole and wires. I thought: 'They don't have telephone poles in heaven...or hell, for that matter (o.k., maybe they do have them in hell -- who knows?). Maybe I'm not really dead...yet. Then, in the middle of my 'countdown to eternity', I was a little annoyed, and maybe a little embarrassed to hear laughter. I turned my head over to the right and a guy in a car was passing me on the right, and it looked like he was going to stroke out from laughing at me. He was not my Good Samaritan -- he laughed--and drove on. Very, very slowly, I picked my self up from the street, and by now, traffic had slowed down considerably --both on the service road and the north/south street directly in front of me. No one stopped to help, but there WAS a considerable amount of laughter.

I took off the skates and walked the block or so back to my motel room and soaked for a long time in a tub of hot water, to try to ease my aches and pains. I had torn a good bit of flesh off of my arms, wrists and 'tokus', but my pride took even longer to heal. I was so thankful that I didn't know any of the passersby who had such a great time at my expense!

This evening, Paula reminded me that those black skates with the lime green wheels and the lime green laces are still up in the attic. I'm thinking of retrieving them and maybe going out for a spin around the block....maybe.