Oh, I love college. Just absorbing all this new information has got to do a brain good. I'm also hoping it will help to slow down the mental drain that occurs in mid-life, that sloughing off of gray matter that leaves us addled, forgetful, confused. I am trying to plump up all those dying brain cells with as much new knowledge as I can absorb in order to ward off, or at least slow down, dementia. This week alone I have learned so many exciting facts about our bodies, our brains, and how and why we behave the way we do that I think my neurons may be firing again. I also think I'm becoming somewhat of an expert on the human condition (which leads me to believe dementia is still hovering in the dark areas of my mind). Regardless, I offer you the highlights of last week's lessons, a quick synopsis, college in a nutshell, and some observations on the human condition called life.
Geology lesson for the week:
We are delving into evolution, which can be a rather delicate and uncomfortable subject. The whole evolution thing is fascinating to me, because first of all, I am a firm believer that we were created by God and that overrides any scientific theories that exist. I don't have a problem with evolution because I believe God could have handled the creation process anyway He wanted to. So as long as I am certain of the WHO in the process of our creation, I just don't get too caught up in the HOW. God has the capacity to let this whole creation process evolve in whichever manner He so designed, so it just doesn't throw me when scientists say we are an evolving species. Fine, evolve away, because God is controlling the whole process, and we are all a part of His plan, like it or not.
Back to our lesson. The fascinating thing about the myriad of evolving species is that the major difference between homo sapiens and primates originated in the jawbone. The jawbone of an ape is controlled by a muscle that is the same size as the human thigh muscle. Picture someone like, oh say, Peyton Manning, and then imagine his thigh muscle attached to your jaw.Wait a minute, get your mind out of the gutter...I am talking in a purely scientific manner here. The point is that it's a huge muscle that controls their jaw, therefore giving primates the power to bite, rip, maul, crush, and tear with tremendous force. The drawback is that the muscle exerts such a pull and force on the skeleton that it circumvents the capacity for the skull plates to remain open. It literally pulls the skull with such energy that the plates fuse by the time the primates are three years old, halting brain development and leaving them with the mental capacity of a toddler. That explains a lot. I have come to believe that the one percent figure that separates us from monkeys is a variable... I am quite certain I know some people that are separated from apes by less than one degree. You know who I'm talking about-- those members of the species homo sapiens that just can't ever seem to keep their mouths shut, the ones who always have an opinion to spew or something to spout off, the ones who seem to have experienced arrested brain development but overdeveloped jaw muscles. This leads us to our next class,
Psychology of Marriage.
This has got to be one of my favorites, simply because of the diversity of the student population and the level of knowledge and experience within the whole marriage cycle that is exhibited in the classroom. There are about thirty students in the class that range in age from 18 to 50. The professor has been married for thirty-one years to her high school sweetheart who still happens to be her best friend. In my opinion, that alone makes her an expert on marriage.. The class consists of unmarried students, married students, divorced students, single-parent students, co-habitating students, celibate students, relationship-committed students....suffice it to say there is a wide range of experience within our numbers. The topic, of course, is marriage, and the opinions present are as widely varied as the facts. This week we dealt with the different types of love, focusing primarily on Sternberg's Triangle of Love theory. Once again, get your mind out of the gutter. We are not discussing a menage a trois here, but a scientific theory regarding the different types of love. The common denominator, or the triangular component, is that every relationship consists of three essential ingredients: commitment, passion, and intimacy. The varying degree to which each component is present in a relationship is the variable that determines the quality of the relationship. Commitment we can understand. Passion we can understand. But intimacy is a little more complex. It involves communication and respect. Couples must talk openly and honestly with each other, share feelings and beliefs, but still maintain respect for the other person's privacy. You have to know when to talk and when to just leave the other person alone and content within their little private corner of life.
This is the part I love. Suddenly, the whole jawbone of an ape thing makes perfect sense. It's that one degree variable that can make or break a relationship. It is the degree of seperation between a happy couple and a miserable one, and it all goes back to the jawbone. Keeping your mouth shut as much as possible can be extremely beneficial. It will not only aid your brain development, it can also save your marriage.
And that is why I love college. Suddenly, everything makes sense again. God certainly knew what He was doing when He ripped the jawbone of the ape away from man, sealing our mouths in order for our brains to grow, therefore giving us the capacity to develop discernment, judgement, compassion, respect, intelligence, wonder, and awe. It's that one little degree of separation...and it is what I will think about the next time I decide to open my big mouth.
So even at my advanced age, I'm still learning some of the facts of life, and to heck with Darwin, I'm presenting Daly's Theory of Evolution: The origin of man began when God created us in His image but limited our capacity to open our mouths, therefore leading to the following equation of life: Mouth shut = Brain Open.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Red flags, warning bells, and the county dump
I'm worried about my husband, Chris. I think he's beginning to crack from all the pressure of being left home alone with no adult supervision while his wife's away at college. There have been little signs appearing, red flags cropping up, warning bells and whistles sounding, to which I paid little attention at first. Now, however, some really strange things are starting to happen, and I'm starting to get worried.
First, Chris called to say he couldn't get the heater to come on in the pool. Now let me explain why this is alarming. Whenever I was home, he hated to turn the pool heater on, saying it cost too much money to run, it made the water too hot, it wasn't refreshing with the tepid temperature, it caused algae to grow on the sides of the pool, it made the water murky, etc., etc.,etc. I would turn the heater on, only to go outside later and discover that it had been switched off. This was a pattern that was repeated every summer, all summer long, for as long as we had lived in the house. Secondly, it's September, and the average high temperature for the past three months has been 125 degrees. That water should be practically boiling by now, and the need for a heater was minimal, if at all. Thirdly, he doesn't swim in the pool, he only dips, as in jump-in, jump-out. I'm the pool lounger, the eternal floater, the basking bather, only happy when the water is as warm as a freshly drawn, scented, luxurious bubble bath. My husband, however, could get by with just running through a sprinkler for the amount of time he got wet in the cement pond. His idea of a swim was to dive off the board, glide underwater to the shallow end, climb up the steps, shake off, and that's that-- so what difference did the temperature make if you're only in it for three seconds? His idea of a fun day at the pool was to hand-vacuum the whole thing, slowly and methodically, slurping out every leaf and blade of grass as I tried to manuever my float away from the hose--but basking in the warm waters just wasn't his thing. And finally, he was just getting ready to head out of town for a four day golfing trip to the Hamptons, so why heat the pool? No one was going to be there, no one would be swimming, even the dogs weren't going to be taking a little dip. It just didn't make sense to heat the whole dang thing. The scary thing is, it turned out the only problem was that he had to turn on the switch.Yes--the "ON" switch-- just one little flick, and voila! Heat! Fortunately, I was able to correct that little problem by phone, but a red flag was beginning to show up on my radar.
The next little episode occurred about 4:40 the next morning. During the night, the security alarm started a continuos and annoying beeping and a "Trouble" message appeared on the key pad. Concerned, Chris called the security company, and they informed him that the back-up battery system was not holding a charge. To fix the problem, they would send a technician out with a new battery pack, and all he had to do was give them our security password so they could process the work order. Well, that presented a little problem. He rolled through every possible answer we have ever used for any security question ever asked, but all to no avail. He tried maiden names, pet names, birth dates, middle names, favorite songs, first school attended, mother's maiden name, father's mother's name, first grade teacher's name, but failed on each attempt. After numerous tries, the very patient customer service rep finally said, "Mr. Daly, you really just don't know what it is. Call your wife and then call us back."
Fortunately for me, I had turned my cell phone off the night before, so I did not receive his 4:30 a.m. call. Unfortunately for him, he remained frustrated and unable to go back to sleep as the alarm slowly chirped on through the night. Wide awake and alone in the house, perhaps a little delirious from sleep deprivation, he decided the most logical thing to do was to engage in a little night vacuuming. Much to his surprise, the vacuum is equipped with a light, and he discovered that if one vacuums in the middle of the night with all the lights turned off, that tiny light illuminates every single atom of dust that has permeated the entire house. It was almost like a miracle, the dust he could see with one little 15watt bulb! He dusted every corner, every baseboard, every floor; he moved every couch and chair, shifted cupboards and sideboards, and rolled up rugs. He plowed through every inch of that house, sucking up bags of fur balls and dust bunnies that had been secretly lurking in the dark recesses of our home, purging the entire residence of any trace of dirt. And this was at 4:30 in the morning. He was proud of his accomplishments and eager to tell me about his EUREKA! moment of discovering that night vacuuming was by far superior to that done in the light of day. He had just spent the entire night vacuuming and he was excited about it! I was concerned.
As he recanted his frustrations with the alarm system, I reminded him of the password AND the secret spot where we had always kept it recorded. Another problem solved by phone, but warning bells were ringing like mad in my head.
Now, let me interject here that this was obviously a man who loved to clean. Don't get me wrong, he's not an effiminate man by any means. He's an ex-football and baseball player, an avid golfer, loves his card night at the club and wouldn't be caught dead with a "man-bag". He's a guys-guy sort of guy, but we all have our little quirks, and he loved to clean. I had always viewed his obsessive-compulsive cleaning as a secret little gift from God and quite possibly the best thing any wife could ever ask for, and I never tried to discourage his compulsions. His idea of a fun day at home was to tackle a room from top to bottom, scrubbing and polishing it to a shine, then moving to a section of the yard to repeat the same process. If he wasn't vacuuming, he was sweeping. If he wasn't sweeping, he was raking. If he wasn't raking, he was clipping. If he wasn't clipping, he was chopping. Then, after all that, he would gather up all his clippings and piles and mounds of trash and dirt and debris, throw the whole pile onto the back of a 16 foot trailer, and head for one of his favorite spots in town--the county trash dump-- where he could freely deposit all the accumulated detritus and debris that had cluttered and dirtied his home.
Obviously, the man loved to vacuum--pools, houses, cars,whatever-- but midnight vacuuming was a bit disturbing. Another red flag was waving directly before my eyes as I questioned the sanity of a man who vacuums alone, in the dark, in the middle of the night, and I could only hope he was not naked at the time. That would be truly disturbing. A lonely old man vacuuming naked in the middle of the night surely had to be a sign of someone slipping over the edge of sanity.
So I had to ask myself, was he losing some of his marbles? Was he starting to crack from living alone with nothing but a couple of spoiled and pampered poodles to keep him company? Was that little bald spot slowly appearing on his crown actually an escape route for some of his gray matter? Should I be concerned? Should I call for a consultation, enroll him in a little therapy, arrange for a psychological evaluation, call in the professionals?
After much thought and reflection, I decided that the best investment to make-- and what he really needed-- was a brand new vacuum cleaner,a really high powered Electrolux or Kirby, something with a kick, some real power and vroom! to it that would spice up his night cleaning. I thought I'd also invest in a nice new pair of manly pajamas, a bottle of Sleep-eeze, and a little notebook where he could record all the instructions and directions necessary for the efficient and orderly management of a household.
And then, I congratulated myself for having the cleanest house in town and decided it was about time to make a trip home.
The next little episode occurred about 4:40 the next morning. During the night, the security alarm started a continuos and annoying beeping and a "Trouble" message appeared on the key pad. Concerned, Chris called the security company, and they informed him that the back-up battery system was not holding a charge. To fix the problem, they would send a technician out with a new battery pack, and all he had to do was give them our security password so they could process the work order. Well, that presented a little problem. He rolled through every possible answer we have ever used for any security question ever asked, but all to no avail. He tried maiden names, pet names, birth dates, middle names, favorite songs, first school attended, mother's maiden name, father's mother's name, first grade teacher's name, but failed on each attempt. After numerous tries, the very patient customer service rep finally said, "Mr. Daly, you really just don't know what it is. Call your wife and then call us back."
Fortunately for me, I had turned my cell phone off the night before, so I did not receive his 4:30 a.m. call. Unfortunately for him, he remained frustrated and unable to go back to sleep as the alarm slowly chirped on through the night. Wide awake and alone in the house, perhaps a little delirious from sleep deprivation, he decided the most logical thing to do was to engage in a little night vacuuming. Much to his surprise, the vacuum is equipped with a light, and he discovered that if one vacuums in the middle of the night with all the lights turned off, that tiny light illuminates every single atom of dust that has permeated the entire house. It was almost like a miracle, the dust he could see with one little 15watt bulb! He dusted every corner, every baseboard, every floor; he moved every couch and chair, shifted cupboards and sideboards, and rolled up rugs. He plowed through every inch of that house, sucking up bags of fur balls and dust bunnies that had been secretly lurking in the dark recesses of our home, purging the entire residence of any trace of dirt. And this was at 4:30 in the morning. He was proud of his accomplishments and eager to tell me about his EUREKA! moment of discovering that night vacuuming was by far superior to that done in the light of day. He had just spent the entire night vacuuming and he was excited about it! I was concerned.
As he recanted his frustrations with the alarm system, I reminded him of the password AND the secret spot where we had always kept it recorded. Another problem solved by phone, but warning bells were ringing like mad in my head.
Now, let me interject here that this was obviously a man who loved to clean. Don't get me wrong, he's not an effiminate man by any means. He's an ex-football and baseball player, an avid golfer, loves his card night at the club and wouldn't be caught dead with a "man-bag". He's a guys-guy sort of guy, but we all have our little quirks, and he loved to clean. I had always viewed his obsessive-compulsive cleaning as a secret little gift from God and quite possibly the best thing any wife could ever ask for, and I never tried to discourage his compulsions. His idea of a fun day at home was to tackle a room from top to bottom, scrubbing and polishing it to a shine, then moving to a section of the yard to repeat the same process. If he wasn't vacuuming, he was sweeping. If he wasn't sweeping, he was raking. If he wasn't raking, he was clipping. If he wasn't clipping, he was chopping. Then, after all that, he would gather up all his clippings and piles and mounds of trash and dirt and debris, throw the whole pile onto the back of a 16 foot trailer, and head for one of his favorite spots in town--the county trash dump-- where he could freely deposit all the accumulated detritus and debris that had cluttered and dirtied his home.
Obviously, the man loved to vacuum--pools, houses, cars,whatever-- but midnight vacuuming was a bit disturbing. Another red flag was waving directly before my eyes as I questioned the sanity of a man who vacuums alone, in the dark, in the middle of the night, and I could only hope he was not naked at the time. That would be truly disturbing. A lonely old man vacuuming naked in the middle of the night surely had to be a sign of someone slipping over the edge of sanity.
So I had to ask myself, was he losing some of his marbles? Was he starting to crack from living alone with nothing but a couple of spoiled and pampered poodles to keep him company? Was that little bald spot slowly appearing on his crown actually an escape route for some of his gray matter? Should I be concerned? Should I call for a consultation, enroll him in a little therapy, arrange for a psychological evaluation, call in the professionals?
After much thought and reflection, I decided that the best investment to make-- and what he really needed-- was a brand new vacuum cleaner,a really high powered Electrolux or Kirby, something with a kick, some real power and vroom! to it that would spice up his night cleaning. I thought I'd also invest in a nice new pair of manly pajamas, a bottle of Sleep-eeze, and a little notebook where he could record all the instructions and directions necessary for the efficient and orderly management of a household.
And then, I congratulated myself for having the cleanest house in town and decided it was about time to make a trip home.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Cowboy Church
Part of the fun and excitement of college is having the opportunity to meet new people, try new things, explore new venues, and enlarge your world view. In order to do this, you have to be open to stepping out of your comfort zone and entering arenas that have not previously been on your life path. On Thursday, Sissey took a little trip down the road less travelled, saddled up for a trailride down an untrodden path, and ending up having a hum-dinger of an evening. This is where it all happened and how it all began....
God is everywhere and speaks to us in a language we can each understand, so the immense range of worship opportunities available was a natural part of His plan to reach out to all of His children. When the opportunity came up for us to worship in a barn with a cowboy preacher, we had no doubt that God would be there, plus I told Sissey that cowboys were always so nice and polite and friendly with their "Howdy, ma'am's" and "Let me hep ya with that's", so we didn't think twice about going as we hopped into our car and took off. The directions we were given to the service instructed us to exit Highway Nine, turn left, drive past a trailer park until we got to the junkyard, look for a fence that we could see through, turn left at the cattle gate, and drive through the pasture until we reached the barn. Naturally, we got lost and ended up in downtown Lancaster. Not seeing a barn or a cow in sight, I knew we had headed in the wrong direction and, unlike any male I've ever met, I called for some help. After several phone conversations, four turn-arounds, and a little back-tracking, we were back on-course but a little off-schedule.
When we finally arrived at the site of Snipes Farm and Rodeo, the worship service was already underway. Brother Jack was delivering a powerful sermon on the gift of faith as we quietly scooted to our seats and settled in for the service. He told of his journey to salvation-- which came after a tour of duty overseas, many years as an alcoholic, a stint as a biker dude, some questionable life decisions, all kinds of brawls and ruckuses-- and then, the "Aha!" moment, when he discovered the missing link in his existence on Planet Earth and accepted Christ as his Lord and Savior. As a changed man, he shifted courses and entered seminary after his army discharge, then served as a pastor at various churches ever since. The focal point of Thursday night's sermon was the free gift of salvation, the free will of man to accept or reject the gift, and the life-changing experiences that can result from making the right decision. It was a genuine and heart-felt message delivered by an humbled and repetent man, and even in midst of the hay-filled barn, with the gentle snorting of horses in the background and the soft buzz of insects flying in the rafters, I could feel God smile upon His good people.
At the end of the service, everyone was offered the chance to place an offering in the feed bucket and to fill in their "Howdy" cards--info cards which colllected names, addresses, and phone numbers of all visitors and members so that the staff could round'em up later. The children then took off for horse and pony rides in the rodeo ring, and we lingered to meet some of the congregants and chat with the preacher.
Brother Snipe, the owner of the farm, immediately asked Sissey if she had ever ridden a horse. She admitted that she had taken a few riding lessons in Richmond, but hadn't been in the saddle for quite a while. He lit up with a grin and said, "Well then, I'm gonna get you on one of my mules!"
Mules have gotten such a bum rap in our modern society, but if you remember your Biblical history, only Kings road mules. Regular soldiers, everyday people, the plebians of society...they all had to ride plain old horses, perhaps an occassional donkey, but MULES were reserved for Kings. I was rather excited to think that Sissey was going to get the opportunity to sit upon the mount of royalty.
But then, Brother Snipe proceeded to tell us the story of how he and Brother Jack had gone mule-riding just last week, and as he had mounted the first mule, it bucked him right off. Brushing off the dirt and hay, he sent the first mule packing and saddled up a second mule, but alas, it too threw him right into the dust. He finally saddled up for the third try a reticent mule that allowed him to sit undisturbed in the saddle, and off he and Brother Jack went for a jaunt through the pastures. At this point, with images of Sissey flying through the air as an angry mule bucked and thrashed, I interrupted and said, "There's no way you're putting my daughter on a MULE!"
As the evening drew late, I decided it was about time for Sissey and me to hit the trail for home, especially since we had a thirty mile drive back on dark country roads. I grabbed our ticket and went into the room next door to pay our tab, but as I was settling up with the cashier, our waitress came running through the restaurant screaming, "FIGHT, FIGHT! Call 911!" The diners, cooks, waitstaff, kitchen staff, hostess, DJ and everyone else it the restaurant flew out to the parking lot to see what was happening. Realizing I had left Sissey alone in the room where the fight originated, I ran back in a panic, visualizing semi-automatic weapons and knives and gangsters invading the building and mowing us all down. When I found her, she was standing by the window, her face as white as her smocked, pressed, and starched Calvin Klein blouse. She stood there, frozen, watching as two cowboys pummelled each other in the parking lot, bones cracking, blood flying, shirts ripping, hats sailing as they rolled and punched and grunted and threw each other against trucks and concrete. I grabbed her, my purse, her sweater, and whispered, "We're getting out of here. NOW!"
I wanted to get out of there quickly, before guns appeared or more angry cowboys showed up or the police arrived or things really got out of control. I knew we were out of our element, out of our league, and definitely out of our comfort zone. I had been to church followed by dinner on the grounds, church followed by a congregational meeting, church followed by a hymn sing, church followed by a prayer meeting, but this was the first time I had ever been to church followed by a fight, and I must say, I did not care for it at all. I had never seen grown men fight, had never witnessed a bloody brawl, had never been that close to such raw physical violence, and it unnerved me. It didn't exactly fit with Brother Jack's message of redemption and salvation, of making the right decisions in life, of changing courses and choosing the straight and narrow path. It felt off-kilter to worship together and then go out and pummell your fellow man. Not quite the fellowship I was expecting, and it was time to make a quick exit.
As I tried to rush her safely out the door, Sissey, in her oh-so-cordial manner, stopped, turned to the group, and politely said, 'It's been such a pleasure to be here this evening. We had a wonderful time. Hope to see you all again soon!" I'm not sure they even heard her over the roar of the fist-fight, or if they even noticed as we left, and I had to laugh at her gracious attempt to exit a bar fight. I scooted her down the ramp and across the parking lot, praying like a fiend that the fighting cowboys wouldn't come rolling across the ground to where our car was parked and that we wouldn't get caught up in the brawl. My hands were shaking as I buckled her in and threw her walker into the back of the car. I ran around to the driver's side, cranked up the engine, and peeled out of that parking lot like a big ole redneck gunning down a dirt-road track. I couldn't get us out of there fast enough. Praying like mad that God would deliver us from evil, restore our souls, and lead us beside quieter pastures, I headed back to the safety of our home and our secure little world.
And as we drove down the dark road, adrenaline racing, hearts pounding, hands still shaking, I laughed and said to Sissey, "Well, honey, you have just seen more action in one night than in your entire college career!"
She was still caught between shaking and smiling, but she managed to grin and say, "So what was that you were saying about cowboys being so nice and friendly and polite and all that?"
"Live and learn, honey, live and learn," was all I could think to respond.
And oh, isn't that what college is all about? Living and learning. Learning and living.
And through it all, you stick to your values, count on your family, discover your identity, find your independence, claim your spot in the world, keep a smile on your face, and always, always, always, cling to your faith.
For several weeks, a friend at school had been inviting us to attend Cowboy Church with her family. As dyed-in-the-wool Presbyterians, we were used to a traditional church service of old familiar hymns, polished wooden pews, stained glass windows, pipe organ music, responsive readings and communion. However, we were not opposed to worshipping with friends within the realms of their comfort zones and in the tradition of their own church experiences. We had been to a biker church in Richmond, where leather-clad and tattooed Harley boys ushered us into a gym for a rock-n-roll service. Our tour guide in Costa Rica had taken us to the rain forest river where all of his family had been baptized in the tropical, muddy, crocodile-infested waters. We had worshipped while roasting marshmellows on campfires by a lake, had sung hymns on a beach at sunrise, had donned veils to enter duomos in Italy, climbed old stone stairways to cathedrals in France, and once even had a wandering preacher give an impromtu sermon while we were trout-fishing on the Linville River.
God is everywhere and speaks to us in a language we can each understand, so the immense range of worship opportunities available was a natural part of His plan to reach out to all of His children. When the opportunity came up for us to worship in a barn with a cowboy preacher, we had no doubt that God would be there, plus I told Sissey that cowboys were always so nice and polite and friendly with their "Howdy, ma'am's" and "Let me hep ya with that's", so we didn't think twice about going as we hopped into our car and took off. When we finally arrived at the site of Snipes Farm and Rodeo, the worship service was already underway. Brother Jack was delivering a powerful sermon on the gift of faith as we quietly scooted to our seats and settled in for the service. He told of his journey to salvation-- which came after a tour of duty overseas, many years as an alcoholic, a stint as a biker dude, some questionable life decisions, all kinds of brawls and ruckuses-- and then, the "Aha!" moment, when he discovered the missing link in his existence on Planet Earth and accepted Christ as his Lord and Savior. As a changed man, he shifted courses and entered seminary after his army discharge, then served as a pastor at various churches ever since. The focal point of Thursday night's sermon was the free gift of salvation, the free will of man to accept or reject the gift, and the life-changing experiences that can result from making the right decision. It was a genuine and heart-felt message delivered by an humbled and repetent man, and even in midst of the hay-filled barn, with the gentle snorting of horses in the background and the soft buzz of insects flying in the rafters, I could feel God smile upon His good people.
Brother Snipe, the owner of the farm, immediately asked Sissey if she had ever ridden a horse. She admitted that she had taken a few riding lessons in Richmond, but hadn't been in the saddle for quite a while. He lit up with a grin and said, "Well then, I'm gonna get you on one of my mules!"
Mules have gotten such a bum rap in our modern society, but if you remember your Biblical history, only Kings road mules. Regular soldiers, everyday people, the plebians of society...they all had to ride plain old horses, perhaps an occassional donkey, but MULES were reserved for Kings. I was rather excited to think that Sissey was going to get the opportunity to sit upon the mount of royalty.
But then, Brother Snipe proceeded to tell us the story of how he and Brother Jack had gone mule-riding just last week, and as he had mounted the first mule, it bucked him right off. Brushing off the dirt and hay, he sent the first mule packing and saddled up a second mule, but alas, it too threw him right into the dust. He finally saddled up for the third try a reticent mule that allowed him to sit undisturbed in the saddle, and off he and Brother Jack went for a jaunt through the pastures. At this point, with images of Sissey flying through the air as an angry mule bucked and thrashed, I interrupted and said, "There's no way you're putting my daughter on a MULE!" With a slow smile and a shake of his head, he just said, "Aw, don't worry, I'm gonna put her on Sweetie. She won't throw her."
Yeah, right, I thought. We may be standing in the shadow of the barn where Brother Jack just delivered God's Holy word, your mule may have a name sweet as honey, but I didn't believe one letter of that line, and there was no way in hell I was putting my daughter on a mule, Sweetie or not, thank you very much.
Following the worship service, the next part of the evening's activities was to head across town to a Mexican restaurant where it was karaoke night. All the cowboys and Christians loaded into trucks and cars and made a convoy over to the restaurant. The singing and dancing was in full swing as we settled into a long, oilcloth covered table. It was difficult trying to find room between ten-gallon cowboy hats and men the size of bulls, but Sissey finally wedged in between Trippy and her daughter, Kudzu, while I plopped down beside PNut and a cowboy named Matt. We listened to some of the worst singing I have ever heard, and all I could think was that this is where American Idol must have been born. There were two women-- obviously thinking they were the next Patsy Cline or Carrie Underwood- who were painfully singing the most off-key, off-tempo, out-of-tune melodies I have ever witnessed--- and they kept coming back to the microphone again and again and again as their tone-deaf family and friends applauded and cheered them on. Please, I thought, this caterwauling has got to stop...can somebody say Amen, brother, and turn that mike off?
Other than that, the rest of the evening was progressing swimmingly. We sat back and watched couples shagging and cruising to the beach music interludes that thankfully broke up the cacophony of the karoake. We munched on nachos and salsa until dinner arrived, then tried to find room for the delicious pollo adobo and chimichangas that arrived on piping hot platters. Fat and happy, it had been a good evening so far. As the evening drew late, I decided it was about time for Sissey and me to hit the trail for home, especially since we had a thirty mile drive back on dark country roads. I grabbed our ticket and went into the room next door to pay our tab, but as I was settling up with the cashier, our waitress came running through the restaurant screaming, "FIGHT, FIGHT! Call 911!" The diners, cooks, waitstaff, kitchen staff, hostess, DJ and everyone else it the restaurant flew out to the parking lot to see what was happening. Realizing I had left Sissey alone in the room where the fight originated, I ran back in a panic, visualizing semi-automatic weapons and knives and gangsters invading the building and mowing us all down. When I found her, she was standing by the window, her face as white as her smocked, pressed, and starched Calvin Klein blouse. She stood there, frozen, watching as two cowboys pummelled each other in the parking lot, bones cracking, blood flying, shirts ripping, hats sailing as they rolled and punched and grunted and threw each other against trucks and concrete. I grabbed her, my purse, her sweater, and whispered, "We're getting out of here. NOW!"
I wanted to get out of there quickly, before guns appeared or more angry cowboys showed up or the police arrived or things really got out of control. I knew we were out of our element, out of our league, and definitely out of our comfort zone. I had been to church followed by dinner on the grounds, church followed by a congregational meeting, church followed by a hymn sing, church followed by a prayer meeting, but this was the first time I had ever been to church followed by a fight, and I must say, I did not care for it at all. I had never seen grown men fight, had never witnessed a bloody brawl, had never been that close to such raw physical violence, and it unnerved me. It didn't exactly fit with Brother Jack's message of redemption and salvation, of making the right decisions in life, of changing courses and choosing the straight and narrow path. It felt off-kilter to worship together and then go out and pummell your fellow man. Not quite the fellowship I was expecting, and it was time to make a quick exit.
As I tried to rush her safely out the door, Sissey, in her oh-so-cordial manner, stopped, turned to the group, and politely said, 'It's been such a pleasure to be here this evening. We had a wonderful time. Hope to see you all again soon!" I'm not sure they even heard her over the roar of the fist-fight, or if they even noticed as we left, and I had to laugh at her gracious attempt to exit a bar fight. I scooted her down the ramp and across the parking lot, praying like a fiend that the fighting cowboys wouldn't come rolling across the ground to where our car was parked and that we wouldn't get caught up in the brawl. My hands were shaking as I buckled her in and threw her walker into the back of the car. I ran around to the driver's side, cranked up the engine, and peeled out of that parking lot like a big ole redneck gunning down a dirt-road track. I couldn't get us out of there fast enough. Praying like mad that God would deliver us from evil, restore our souls, and lead us beside quieter pastures, I headed back to the safety of our home and our secure little world.
And as we drove down the dark road, adrenaline racing, hearts pounding, hands still shaking, I laughed and said to Sissey, "Well, honey, you have just seen more action in one night than in your entire college career!"
She was still caught between shaking and smiling, but she managed to grin and say, "So what was that you were saying about cowboys being so nice and friendly and polite and all that?"
"Live and learn, honey, live and learn," was all I could think to respond.
And oh, isn't that what college is all about? Living and learning. Learning and living.
And through it all, you stick to your values, count on your family, discover your identity, find your independence, claim your spot in the world, keep a smile on your face, and always, always, always, cling to your faith.
That doesn't mean, however, that you can't have one heck of a time on a Thursday night and laugh about it all the way home!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
STST, Inc.
South Carolina is home to a major income-producing industry which has locations strategically placed throughout the state. This industry is not publicized and is not well-known outside of the pie-shaped borders of South Carolina, but it is a thriving business that generates massive amounts of revenue. The residents of South Carolina are well-aware of this venture, however, and quietly spread word about it to family and friends travelling through town, alerting all about the potential to invest in STST.
The industry, STST, is an efficient, coordinated, well-run business that was once headquartered in the small mill village of Carlisle, SC.. This obscure little town of no stop-lights and one gas station claimed a short stretch of road heavily travelled by logging trucks, back-road tourists, and I-26 commuters. Barrelling down Highway 72, you suddenly entered the town limits of Carlisle and had about 2 seconds to slam on the brakes, slow down, and go from 55 to 35. If you failed to yield in a timely fashion, you would politely receive an invitation to join the local STST. For many, many years, Carlisle tightly held the reins as the central headquarters of the STST.
But times change, and trends come and go, and I believe now that the current central office is placed somewhere within the county of Chester, quite possibly in the community of Fort Lawn, but definitely somewhere along the stretch of road called Highway Nine.
The STST, doing buisness as Small Town Speed Traps, Inc., is a franchise located all along the highways and byways of the state. It is hard to find an actual STST office, but believe me, one will find you even when you aren't looking. Usually, you discover an STST location quite by accident, when an officer of the franchise suddenly bursts out of nowhere and pulls you over for a little informative discussion with the intent of persuading you to invest in the company. These meetings ALWAYS, ALWAYS end with you making an investment, although the rate of return for the investor is usually minimal. The territory of one officer of the STST franchise is situated on the long straight road between Chester and Fort Lawn. He is a bold and aggressive employee, diligently seeking potential investors as they roar through town, determined no visitor will leave unaware of the opportunity to invest in the local STST. His office is fairly well hidden, somewhere behind a dip in the road, some bushes, and an old cow gate. He recruits so many potential investors that His Honor the Judge (aka CEO of the Corporation) has awarded this faithful employee with his own personal section in his courtroom- the site of the weekly stockholder's meeting. There, the officer gathers all his interested investors together for an informative discussion with the CEO, afterwhich they are allowed to submit their cash investments. I know this to be true, because my father told me so when he was invited to one such meeting after doing 65 in a 55, which was not bad for a man who is 75. For about $95.00, he was allowed to invest in the local STST.
I am a firm supporter of the local STST's. I usually make a contribution on an annual basis. They allow anyone to become an investor, do not discriminate based on age, race, gender, or physical ability, do not unfairly tax one group as opposed to another, and they are open for business 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year, in rail, hail, sleet or snow. You can't beat that for employee dedication.
So be sure to come on down for a visit-- and don't miss out on an opportunity to invest in a thriving business. After all, in today's economy, you have to look long and hard to find a company that's still turning a profit. STST just might be the only business in town that's still booming and still accepting investors.
Cash only, please. No personal checks, debit cards, credit cards, money orders, IOU's, or other forms of payment accepted. Investors have 30 days to remit funds. Unpaid balances must be remitted in person at the local county jail. Please bring valid personal ID. Leave all personal possessions behind. No cell phones, concealed weapons, explosives, curlers, small children, pets, or tobacco products allowed on the premises. Limit one per customer while supplies last.
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