40 Years, Give or Take: Senior Year, Part I

I now had a year at JCSHS on my resume.  I was a Jay. 

The summer between my junior and senior year was busy.  Jerry Hoover, band director, had pushed me to do more musically; to at least try; to learn more; to stretch my musical boundaries.   I’m still not sure what he saw or heard in me, but for some reason he made it his business to help me achieve more.  

So, that summer, he had me taking trumpet lessons from Mike Matheny (brother of renowned jazz guitarist, Pat Matheny, and an incredible musician in his own right).  At the same time, Mr. Hoover had me teaching trumpet to an incoming freshman.  I was learning.  I was stretching.

He had arranged a “scholarship” for me to attend Lakewood Music Camp that summer.  Wow.  Talk about guerrilla training!  We had approximately 6 hours of music rehearsal each day.  I was learning jazz styles, symphonic styles, and also picking up some very useful tips in some of the greatest stunts ever pulled in the name of mischief by young teenaged boys in a summer camp environment.  I learned from the best. 

Before long, it was time for early morning marching band rehearsals.   I had done most of the previous season as part of the marching band my junior year, and I was never more proud in my life.  Not only because of the legendary band, of which I was honored to be a part, but because I was a part of something much bigger.  I was a Jay, and as such I felt a part of every good thing that came out of the school system.

I can still feel the cold early fall wind on my face as I drove my ’66 Volkswagen Beetle to school to get there before 6:30 every morning, my head hanging out the window like a Retriever because the windshield was still frosted over.  (Anyone who has ever owned one of those old bugs can tell you that the heaters never worked in the first 30 minutes of driving.)

I can still see King Shollenberger, hands in his pockets to ward off the brisk morning air, walking along the top of the ridge above the parking lot that served as our practice field, smiling as usual, and encouraging us, sometimes with a wink to me personally that said, “Aren’t you glad you decided to march?” 

All the while, Mr. Hoover gave directions through his ever-present megaphone, and guided us through formations and step-two drills.  I swear, I will not be surprised if “knee-lift and swagger!” are my dying words.

During my “Integration Period” late in my junior year into my senior year, I was introduced to more musical styles than I knew existed.  It was during this time that I became aware of a burning desire to learn more musical styles.   If a song had a trumpet, I wanted to be able to play it.  If it had lots of guitar, I needed to learn the chords.  If it had trumpet and guitar, well…that was heaven.   Then came “Chicago”, and “Blood, Sweat, & Tears”, and “Chase”.   I was OD’ing on music! 

I mean, think about it…has there ever been a time when music was in such transition as 1971-1972?  There was Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young, and John Denver.  There was The Who with “Won’t Get Fooled Again”, but also in the same Top 100 was Perry Como’s “It’s Impossible”.   There was Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May” in the same Top 40 as Tom Jones’ “She’s a Lady”.  The Billboard Top 100 was occupied by both Rare Earth’s “I Just Wanna Celebrate” and the Carpenters’ “Rainy Days and Mondays” simultaneously.

I was growing musically, maturing as a person, and discovering who I was amidst a climate of an unpopular war and a generation dedicating itself to changing things. 

School started and I could not wait.  I knew who Jefferson City Senior High School was now in the world of high school sports.  I had learned who Pete Atkins was and what he had built there.  It was my senior year and Stan Horn was to be our starting quarterback.  It was my senior year and I knew what a Concert Eb scale was.   I was no longer scared.   And I no longer felt alone. 

40 Years, Give or Take: Junior Year

Feeling alone in a sea of new faces, I tried my best to blend in during the first few weeks of my junior year at JCHS in 1970.   I was so confused by the order of things and all the extra processes involved, that when “M through Z” was called to come down for class pictures, I walked up to the photographer, gave him my name, and ended up in the 1971 Marcullus with the rest of the---sophomores?  Yes, I had my school picture taken with the sophomores instead of the juniors. 

Music was my common tie from Eugene to Jefferson City, so I decided to immerse myself in the band program.  But as I have said, I felt like I was starting out several yards behind the other band students.

 

The first day in the band room, during warmups, director Jerry Hoover called for a "concert Eb scale."  I had no idea where to even start playing that scale on my trumpet!  I had never even heard the term "concert Eb scale!"  Then, Mr. Hoover stopped the entire 180+ member band, looked at Jon Scott (class of '71) seated next to me, and said, "Show him the concert Eb scale."   So much for blending in.

I opted out of marching band, not because I didn’t want to be a part of it, but because I felt completely inadequate.  For one thing, there was the whole move-from-tiny-school-to-big-school thing.  But I also have this thing with my leg.  One leg is a bit smaller than the other due to a slight case of polio when I was a baby.  (Remember, we were born prior to the Salk vaccine!) I have this limp, and that made me somewhat self-conscious when trying to march in a band I considered as close to professional as a school band could be! 

But Mr. Hoover wasn’t having any of it.  Where I thought I was doing him a favor, he was determined not to let me miss out on an opportunity.  That would be a pattern with him for the next two years. 

So, I ended up in marching band.  And what memories I have from those experiences during my junior and senior years!    The band trips, the early morning marching practices, Mr. Shollenberger pacing the sidelines with that ever-present grin.  Some specific memories from Jazz Band and the Marching Jays will be covered in the next few installments of this blog.

My junior year was a blur.  There were so many firsts, it’s hard to pin them all down.  Not to mention that the passing of 39 years has crowded a lot of memories together.  And I’m old…er.

There was my first high school football game.  Now, how cool is it that the very first high school football game I ever saw was as a Jeff City Jay?!  Then there were the Majorettes!  (sigh)  The first band contest, practices, school musicals, the Jayettes, and of course walking 2 miles farther between classes than I ever had to at Eugene.  And then there were the Majorettes! 

I picked up guitar, thanks to the inspiration of Paul Duke (class of ’71), and became involved with a folk group from First Baptist Church with Paul and Jim Ailor (class of ’71), Greg Morrow, Greg Hernandez, Donna Haldiman, and several others.  It was a great time!  

I was actually beginning to improve my musical skills, so I felt less inadequate.  I was actually growing!  And there were opportunities there at JCHS that  I would never have had in a smaller school.

I slowly began to fold in to the rest of the school, and the more I became involved with music, the more I felt I belonged there at Jefferson City Senior High School.  I was becoming a Jay.   

40 Years, Give or Take

I have recently been informed that June of next year, 2012, will mark 40 years since I graduated high school.  That sentence is huge in terms of "bulging with back-story."  (For those uninitiated in literary terms, that's a literary term meaning "bulging with back-story.")

First, I received this news via a postcard from the reunion committee.  Secondly, I reconnected with these people via facebook.  Wow.  Hello, 19th Century meets 21st Century!  I mean we went from stamp to social networking in the blink of an age-dimmed eye!

Of course, all this contact with folks whom I hadn't talked to or seen since 1972 brought back a flood of memories--and a few traumatic life experiences--from those formative years.

There were 459 young idealistic souls who graduated that year.  True, there were many of those whom I never had contact with during school, and most of them probably didn't know me from Adam.  Nonetheless, we walked the track together, and we graduated together, on June 1, 1972.

With that in mind, these next few blogs (note the current, trendy, and somewhat hip terminology I now incorporate into my everyday spoken language) will be devoted to those life-shaping years, leading up to my graduation from Jefferson City Senior High School.

Please note that any and all names used from this point forward have NOT been changed to protect the innocent, nor anyone else who may have wandered into that era.

Let's begin where it all started. It was the summer of 1970.  I had just finished my sophomore year at Eugene Cole R-V High School in Eugene, Missouri.  Now, my family was moving into the Jefferson City school district. Three years earlier, my father had resigned his position as high school principal and Social Studies and Speech teacher there at Eugene and taken a position with the State Department of Education as Transcript Review Supervisor.

By 1970, he had moved his family closer to Jefferson City, and the Jefferson Building in which was his office. And of course, I would be attending Jefferson City Senior High School. Thus was I initiated into the "big city" school system of Jefferson City Public Schools.  I turned 16 just a couple of weeks before school started the first week of September, 1970.

I had one major school activity to which I could tie my Eugene and Jefferson City school experiences: band.  I was a trumpet player.  I went from a school band with 20 members to one with 180.  That was about three times the number of my entire sophomore class.

I went from a school in which the music teacher made me play 3rd trumpet because there weren't enough players to cover the parts, to a school that had way more than enough to cover all parts, with several students left over.

I went from a school band in which I was taught music by the teacher singing my trumpet part to me (and so I learned music more by ear than by theory), to a school in which my grades were dependent upon my reading music.

I went from a school that had such a small band that, when we marched in the Jefferson City Christmas Parade, I was asked to play cymbals because there weren't enough students in the percussion section to cover the cadence.  I declined because I was a trumpet player!  (That year, by the way, the Eugene Cole R-V Schools Marching Band was placed in the parade between the Jefferson City Senior High School Marching Band and the Lincoln University Marching Band.  As I recall, we played a lame arrangement of "Good King Wenceslas", and I lost my mouthpiece somewhere between humiliation and embarrassment, and wished I had agreed to play cymbals.)

I went from a school that, during registration, handed out a sheet of paper for the student to fill out to choose classes for the coming year, to a school that used data punch cards, and had a labyrinth of different lines to go through to register for classes.

The first day of classes came, and I didn't have a clue. I roamed the halls trying to find my locker, Rex Adams looking at me like the principal in Napoleon Dynamite looking at Pedro.

I had no idea what was in store for me.  But I knew I was scared.  And alone.

PK: Preacher's Kid vs. Deacon's Kid

Preacher’s kids, if of the male variety, have a reputation for being, at the very least, rowdy and rambunctious, and at worst, something akin to Children of the Corn (note: insipid movie reference).  If the PK happens to be a girl, “spunky” seems to be a catch-all.   That’s not fair, but it is what it is. 

My older sisters were—are—spunky.  My oldest sister is less spunky, but she is the Perfect Sibling; the Why Can't You Be More Like Your Sister sibling; the I Make Perfect Grades sister.  None of us like her very much.  The next oldest is spunky.  With a capital ‘spunk.’  But, she is married to a preacher and they have two PKs, so, you know. . .payback.

The Senior Pastor of my church has kids.  His youngest, a daughter we’ll call “Natalie,” because that is her name, is spunky.   From my observations, she occasionally crosses over from spunky to rowdy.  Maybe even, at times, rambunctious.  I have even wondered if she hasn’t walked out of the cornfield a time or two herself (repeat insipid movie reference).  But even then, it’s considered “cute.”  A guy could never pull that off.  I know, that sounds sexist, but whatever, it’s the truth. 

If you’re a guy, and a PK, you are trouble.  This is true, or there wouldn’t be so many Preacher’s Kid jokes out there, the vast majority of which are male-oriented.  There are websites devoted to the subject.  There are facebook pages for PKs.   Whether you’re rowdy, rambunctious, Damien incarnate (note: second insipid movie reference), or “spunky,” the fact is PKs have a rep.  And it’s usually not that positive.

But to get to the point of this writing—and the title, why are there no Deacon’s Kids jokes?  Why no facebook pages for Deacon’s Kids?  There are 592,000 entries in a Google search for “Preacher’s Kid”.  There are less than 3,000 for “Deacon’s Kid.”  Why is that?  I mean, besides the fact that they are less interesting.

Deacon’s Kids get away with everything.  And that includes the trouble they start and then inflict on PKs simply because they can.  Because they know that popular opinion is on their side.  I know this from personal experience, having been inflicted upon and popular opinioned against by Deacon’s Kids.

As you have no doubt already figured out, because you are a bright reader, I am going to share a few of those inflictions I have suffered at the hands of Deacon’s Kids to prove my thesis.

Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, a rural community church not far from Jefferson City, Missouri, is where I spent most of my growing years.  I say that because my father was the pastor of that church, and the church was right next door to the parsonage, where we lived.  Consequently, this is where I spent most of my time, and where most of the malfeasance by Deacon’s Kids took place, the consequences of which I bore more than they.  I’m serious.

Consider the Case of the Initials Carved in the Pew.  I always tried to sit in the pew with the initials carved in them.  This is because, during my father’s sermons, I would pretend that the pew I was seated in was reserved for members of the Royal Air Force.  See, the initials carved in the pew were “RAF”.  Not my initials.  However, they were the initials of the eldest son of one of the deacons.  I got in trouble for daydreaming and tracing the initials with my fingers during the sermon.  Did the Deacon’s Kid who carved his initials in the pew get in trouble?  Nooooooooo, never a mention.  But I got in trouble for merely looking at them!  (The perpetrator later married my oldest sister.  And my father performed the ceremony.  Is there no justice?)

Then there’s the Case of Rock, Paper, Scissors.   It’s a Sunday night.  (Yes, back then, we went to church on Sunday nights.  And Wednesday nights.  And, I believe, 8 more nights per week.)  A Deacon’s Kid seated next to me decides that my father’s sermon provides the perfect backdrop for a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.  About four “rock beats scissors” and “paper covers rock” later, I hear the voice of my father cutting through, from the pulpit. 

“Keith, I want you to move up here to the front row where I can keep an eye on you.” (For those uninitiated in the unspoken social etiquette of the Baptist church, the front pew is never occupied.  It is reserved, apparently, for the Trinity.  Or for rowdy PKs.)  My father looked ill, which is always how he looked when he was embarrassed by one of his children.  Then he said, “I’ll take care of you later.”  From the pulpit he said that! 

With that statement, my fate was sealed.  I was dead.  I hadn’t even had a girlfriend yet, and I was going to die.  You have to have known my father to know that the last thing he wanted was to have negative attention drawn to himself or any member of his family.  Particularly his offspring.  And so, having had to “call me down” from the pulpit was the last resort for him.  This equated to certain death for me.

Ever watch a football game and seen one player shove another player, and then the player who gets shoved first shoves the shover back (still with me?), and the guy who got shoved in the first place is the one who gets penalized simply because the ref didn't see the first guy, the shover, instigate the whole thing?  It's kind of the same thing.  The Deacon’s Kid who instigated the Rock, Paper, Scissors game, and who made the most overt gestures and who made the most noise slapping each rock, paper, or scissors in his palm, he gets off penalty-free.  And I’m going to die without a girlfriend.  Tell me that’s fair!

Finally—and I say “finally” only because I don’t want to over-tax your attention span by listing case after case after case to prove my point, but just know that I could—there is the Case of the Herald Trumpet That Didn’t.  And this, my friends, is the piece de resistance.  This story alone proves my case.

It’s Christmas, and as we did every year, Pleasant Hill Baptist Church is putting on a Christmas program.  Because I had begun playing trumpet in the school band, obviously I had to have a part in the Christmas program.  

I should stop here and explain the Musical Requirements for my family.  See, my family is very musical.  My father played clarinet in school band, and he sang—well at least could carry a tune; my mother played cornet in school band, played piano, and had a very nice voice.  All of us kids sang, played an instrument in school band, and in the case of my sisters, played piano.  Therefore, we all had to sing/play in church.  That was the Musical Requirement.  From the time I was old enough to stand on my own, I sang, and later played in church.  My older sisters developed a beautiful 3-part harmony thing and were quite the hit with their trios.  My father loved to have what was called “special music” whenever he preached.  If none was available—or if he was hit with an idea from the pulpit, he might call on the girls to “bring special music.”  And so it followed that, as soon as a new musical instrument was picked up by one of us, it must be incorporated into a church service. 

So, back to the Christmas program.

This program called for a Herald Trumpet to fanfare the announcement of the Heavenly Host to the shepherds in the field.  Right after, “…And ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger…” the Herald Trumpet was to blow a fanfare, leading into the next verse in Luke 2, “…And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host…”  I was the Herald Trumpet, and all I had to do was play a short fanfare.  (For the musical among you, it was nothing more than a “dut duh-duh-dahhhh”, a G to a C.) 

My cue came, as I heard the narrator say “…and lying in a manger.”  From the back of the sanctuary, I raised my trumpet to my lips, and blew. 

“Pfffffftttt” is what came out.  I looked at the mouthpiece of the trumpet as if to say, “How dare you!” 

I positioned my embouchure perfectly on the mouthpiece and blew correctly, more forcefully.

“PFFFFFFFFmmmmRRRRRRFFFFFFTTTT” was the sound that wafted across the sanctuary.

I was not a bad trumpet player, even at the young age of 12.  I knew enough about the instrument to know that whatever was wrong, the problem lie with the instrument itself and not my technique or even my nervousness.

I could feel rather than see the burning stare of my father from the darkness between me and the stage area.

“AND YE SHALL FIND THE BABE, WRAPPED IN SWADDLING CLOTHES, AND LYING IN A MANGER…”  The voice of the narrator boomed.  (Oh yeah, that was the problem, I just hadn’t heard the cue.)

“PFFFFTT-MMMMM-FFFFF-PRRRFFFFFFF” came bursting forth in all its muffled brassy glory from the bell of the trumpet. 

The program moved on without the benefit of the Herald Trumpet to herald the event.

It was then that I noticed two Deacon’s Kids laughing in the corner close to me.  Until that moment, it had not occurred to me to inspect the horn for possible sabotage. 

I had already removed one of the valves to make sure it was seated correctly, so it wasn’t that.  Then it hit me like a—well, like a trumpet heralding the event.

“Dut duh-duh dahhhhhh!”  The bell of the trumpet.  Look in the bell.  Sure enough, stuffed into the bell as far as it could go was a wad of toilet paper.  My discovery of the terrorism only made the two Deacon’s Kids laugh harder. 

I was finally able to convince my father that I didn’t do it to purposely blow up the Christmas program.  I think he knew me well enough to know that I would never have deliberately caused myself embarrassment musically, let alone him and the entire church.

But did the Deacon’s Kids get in trouble?  No.  Even though I was quick to throw them under the bus (hey, it was life and death, me or them, that whole “fight or flight” thing, and I wasn’t taking the fall for them.  After all, they had caused me humiliation at the one thing that I could consider myself fairly good at!), and I told my father exactly who did it.  Still, they got off as free as OJ Simpson.

And in any case, all they had to do, if questioned by their parents, was say, “No, it wasn’t me!  We told him not to do it, but he thought it would be funny!” and their parents would probably have believed them. 

After all, I was the Preacher’s Kid.

PK: What It Means to Be One

“He can’t have no fun!”  The bigger kid sneered as he looked around to the other boys for affirmation of his observation so eloquently stated. 

“He can never do nothin’ fun, ‘cause he’s a preacher’s kid!” He continued, eliciting nods of agreement from the group.

“I can too, I can do anything I want!” I shot back, lying like a rug. 

I had to respond, even if it was a lie.  It’s the Law of the Playground.  The Elementary School Boys Code.  And while it was a lie—I couldn’t do anything I wanted to do—I could have fun.  I had fun all the time.  Just not doing whatever bad thing the bigger, bad kid wanted me to do.  Truth was, I didn’t even want to.  But at that moment, in that pressure cooker environment facing the gang mentality of some of the boys from Eugene Cole R-V elementary school, I really hated being a preacher’s kid—a PK.

I have been a PK for all but the first three years of my life.  (More on those first three years in a moment.)  During that time, I have heard it all—good and bad.  I have heard every preacher’s kid joke and told a few of my own; I’m pretty sure that I’ve been spanked twice as hard and twice as often as other boys simply because I was a preacher’s kid.  I’ve been held up as the “Why Can’t You Be Like Him” ideal to other kids because I was a preacher’s kid.  To be fair, I’ve also been held up as the “Whatever You Do, Don’t Be Like Him” model because I was a preacher’s kid.  I’ve had many moments when I was so very proud to be a preacher’s kid.  But those playground experiences can be especially tough on a 10-year old boy, and during those exchanges, it was the last thing I wanted to be. 

“Then why doncha do it!?”  The bigger kid taunted, elbowing the boys next to him, relying on the ages-proven concept of peer pressure.

And that’s when I saw my chance.  I pulled the hammer back and fired my best come-back at him, confident of a kill shot.  “’Cause you’re not my boss!”

A brief, rapid-fire exchange followed, wrapping up the entire affair in a matter of seconds.

“’Cause you’re chicken, ‘cause you’re a preacher’s kid!”

“Nuh-uhh, ‘cause you can’t make me!”

“Can’t make a monkey twice!”

“That’s so funny I forgot to laugh!”

“Shut up!”

“I don’t shut up I grow up and when I look at you I throw up!”

The recess bell rang.  Battle over.  Score one for the PK.

Being a preacher’s kid carried a sack full of responsibilities that I never asked for.  You have to be polite.  You have to be nice.  You can’t cuss.  You have to keep your clothes looking nice.  You have to set a good example for the other kids.  You have to go to church every time the doors open.  You can’t cheat.  You can’t---well now that I think about it, Mr. Eloquence from the playground was right.  You can’t have no fun. 

 

On the other hand, there is a priceless advantage to growing up in a spiritual environment and in church, being raised by loving Christian parents.  It is grounding.  It is a compass that stays with you through all the storms of your life and always points true, always to what is right. 

And there is an inherent and intangible coolness in the fact that your Pastor is also your father.  His stories seem funnier; the truths he speaks from the Bible seem truer; his altar calls—the invitation, even more earnest.  And no preacher I’ve ever heard could take an old "Knight’s Illustration" and make it more personal and relevant than my dad.   In short, he made being a PK more bearable—even for a boy constantly subjected to the Law of the Playground and the Elementary School Boys Code. 

Besides that, the alternative to not being a preacher’s kid in my family was unthinkable.  And that brings us back to that first three years of my life.  See, my father was an alcoholic.  I was too young to remember, but my older sisters remember all too well.  So does my mother. 

My father gave his heart and his life to Jesus and asked God to save him when I was three years old.  Within days, he had surrendered his life completely and answered God’s call to the ministry.  I have heard the stories from my sisters and my mother, about his life before that life-changing moment and since.  So let me think, I could’ve been “Red Wilson’s boy—you know Red, that ol’ drunk.”  Or I could be “R.V. Wilson’s boy—you know Brother Wilson, that preacher who tells such good stories over there at Pleasant Hill Baptist Church!”  Being a preacher’s kid doesn’t sound like a bad deal at all. 

I’d love to be able to tell that to the bigger kid from the playground today.  I think it might go something like this:

“Remember me?”

“Yeah, you’re that preacher’s kid who never could have no fun.”

“You were wrong.  Fact is I’ve never had so much fun, being Brother R.V. Wilson’s kid—growing up as a PK…And I wish I would’ve told you that back then.  But we were just kids.”

“You were.”

“You were another one.”

“Shut up!”

“I don’t shut up, I---“

PK: What Not to Take to Church

The preacher stopped in mid-sermon as the sudden, mysterious rattling sound commanded the attention of both congregation and himself. It did not take the fifty or so congregants and the preacher very long to determine the source of the sound, even if they could not determine what it was that caused the odd sound.

A young boy, sitting toward the front to the left of the preacher, sat frozen, as though his self-induced catatonic state might throw the spectators off suspicion. His beet-red ears, clearly visible to all those behind him because of their prominence, pointed directly to him as surely as a neon sign flashing above his head reading “HE DID IT!”

It took several seconds for the rattling sound to subside. In the meantime, the preacher resumed his sermon, hoping to draw the attention of the revival attendees at the small Baptist church back to more important matters. He was marginally successful. From the rouge shade of his own ears, it was clear that his level of discomfort was almost as great as the boy's, and he would deal with the young miscreant after the benediction was rendered.

When you are 9 years old, it's a pitifully short flash that streaks across your mind's eye when you know you are going to die. I knew I was dead the moment the plastic box flipped open unexpectedly as I tried to pry it open. I knew it when I saw, in slow motion, the tiny lead spheres spray in every direction, each landing with a series of bounces as it struck either the hardwood seat of the pew or the hardwood floor. That wooden floor, slanted toward the front of the sanctuary peculiar to old rural churches in that day. The little lead balls were everywhere—and still bouncing. And I would be dead before the evening was over. Or wish I was. I could see that much in the face—and ears—of my father as he tried to continue his sermon.

The plastic box, closed securely, had held two 20-Gauge shotgun shells worth of Number 8 Bird Shot lead pellets. I had carefully cut the shells open, poured out the pellets into the plastic box (which I am sure I had secured from one of my sisters, and which had most likely previously held something stupid and useless like hairpins—we called them “bobby pins", or maybe curler picks). I know there were two shotgun shells worth of pellets, because that's how much gunpowder it took to form my initials, KW, on the concrete floor of our basement—the parsonage, which I then lit on fire to burn the letters onto the floor. (How brilliant was I? “No, Mother, I didn't do that...I don't know whose initials those are!”).

Why I kept the bird shot in a plastic box I do not know. Why I put that box in my pocket and took it with me to that revival meeting, I do not know. Why I decided, during my father's sermon, to take that box out of my pocket and try to open it...Well, that is a question for the ages.

The message that evening seemed to end sooner than normal. When we were in the car, my father said simply, “You're going to get a whippin' when we get home.” He may as well have beheaded me then and there. I would rather he had. The car ride was a sentence and execution in itself.

Now, my father very rarely administered the whippin's. That was left to my mother. After delivering the testimony, the evidence, and the verdict, my father would retire and my mother would begin searching the kitchen and/or yard for the implement of my sentence. Any one of the items used to spank me with over the course of my childhood would be enough to make a government employee of a Children's Services department faint and fall in it today.

Yet somehow I survived. And somehow, the revival attendees had the opportunity to “revive” their spiritual relationships, in spite of the distraction and interruption caused by the preacher's kid. And we all moved ahead.

And what did I get in trouble for? This nine-year old boy did not get in trouble for playing with shotgun shells; for cutting them open and lighting gunpowder on fire in the basement of the parsonage. No, this P.K., this "Preacher's Kid" got in trouble for “acting up” in church and causing a disturbance. And of course, for embarrassing his father in front of all those people. 

But somehow I survived. Somehow, without government involvement, without years of therapy, without blame and psychological explanation, I survived.  My parents managed to raise me. They managed to survive me, and I them.

After that fateful night at that little Baptist church in the country, I never took another plastic box of lead bird shot to church with me again. Ever. Lesson learned. Oh, it didn't stop me from cutting apart shotgun shells, and I still burned my initials on the floor in gunpowder. I just never saved those tiny pellets to take to church. 

I took them to school.

On Being Humorous

Disclaimer: I will be using Mark Twain as a reference here.  Please do not assume that I am comparing myself with Mark Twain.  Except maybe for my hair, which seems to be getting whiter.  And my rumpled clothing.  And my rural Missouri upbringing.  And perhaps even my own warped sense of humor and odd way of looking at life.  And my disdain for governmental bureaucracy.  But as a humorist, there is a thin minority of those who could compare.  I am in the majority.  I am not even a humorist.  I'm just strange. Having therefore disclaimed all things that might be incriminating, I push ahead using the format most preferred by those of us who could not otherwise be published: the vanity press of facebook and the Internet.

If one has a sense of humor, particularly if it is warped, and one has lived one's entire life in that enterprise, one risks being taken as a sort of court jester or class clown who, even though adulthood--advanced adulthood--has clearly landed upon one, finds it difficult to be taken seriously.  This is particularly true when one continually refers to oneself as "one."

Mark Twain, perhaps the greatest American humorist, because he was not only a great writer but also a gifted lecturer and entertainer, suffered this malady.  It is told that, during a lecture at a prestigious women's university, he intended to read a poem he had written, at the insistence of a friend.  He announced, "And now ladies, I am going to read you a poem of mine."  This was greeted by an outburst of laughter from the audience.  "But this truly is a serious poem," he insisted, only to be answered by even more laughter.  Put off by this response, he put the poem back in his pocket and said, "Well, young ladies, since you do not believe me to be serious, I shall not read the poem," at which the audience almost went into convulsions of laughter.

Mark Twain once said, "It is a very serious and a very difficult matter to doff the mask of humor with which the public is accustomed, in thought, to see me adorned.  It is the incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist, however serious his vein." [emphasis added]

I have been told, throughout my own life, that "it is impossible to take you serious."  I have been told, by more than one woman, "I just can't think of you that way--I would always be expecting a joke."  I have even been told, after writing a serious piece, that "it wasn't that funny...not your best effort."

So while I cannot possibly sit on the same bench as Mark Twain, I do understand his statement of the "incorrigible practice of the public...to see only humor in the humorist..."

I'm not sure how Mr. Clemens handled it, late at night when no one was watching or listening.  But I've decided that it's worth it.  Besides, at this point in my life, I have found it very convenient to say "I'm too old to change now."

My apologies to any who thought there was still hope for me.

Semi-Great Expectations. . .My New Year's Revolutions

It's a new year.  It's coming, and it cannot be stopped.   It is approaching more rapidly now.  In the early months of 2010, it seemed a long way off--moving slowly but surely.  Like when I move from the Christmas dinner table to the nearest recliner; I know I will get there, I just don't know how long it will take.  But since the end of October, the approaching new year seems to have picked up speed.  And now, here it is.

I know the new year is here because all of my wall calendars are out of pages.  Also, my wife is already reminding me not to write "2010" on any checks I write after December 31st.  I really should watch that, because it's much harder to scribble a "1" over a "0" than it is some other numbers, say a "7", no matter how hard you press, how many times you repeat the stroke, or how thick you try and make it.

I can also tell the new year is here because I'm already beginning to feel guilty.  This is because I have yet to make my new year's resolutions.  Oh, wait--I forgot, I don't call them "resolutions" anymore.  Rarely does anything that I have resolved to do in the coming year get resolved.  So now I just say "I'm setting goals."  That way, if nothing gets resolved in the coming year, I can just say, "Well, my expectations were way too high!  I must learn to set more attainable goals." 

Anyway, this is another way I know it's a new year: I haven't set my goals for the coming year.  And now I'm beginning to feel guilty about it.    This means I am already behind on not attaining my goals.  At this pace, it's going to be spring before I get my goals set, and, what--September or October before I admit that I can't attain the goals I set for this year, because my expectations were too great.  And of course, by then, the next new year is approaching at warp speed, and I'll have to start concentrating on goals for the next new year.  I swear, it never ends.


Setting goals.  Making resolutions.  Both of those terms really sound as though a person is making giant strides toward self-improvement, don't they?  I should just call it what it is: Another Chance to Set Unrealistic Goals Which I Know I Will Never Be Able to Attain but Which I Will Set Anyway, and Then When I Fail to Attain Those Unrealistic Goals Within the Unrealistic Time Period of One Year, I Will Feel Guilty, But I Will Set Them Anyway Because I Will Also Feel Guilty If I Do Not Set Some Goals for the New Year.  That's a little cumbersome to write, and even more ponderous to read, however.  Maybe I'll find a better way of saying it, but for now, I'll just call it Setting Goals.  Hey, wait...I just had an idea!  Let me write that down. . .Find a better way of saying it.  That's now one of my goals for 2011.

When I'm setting my goals, I look back at the previous year and take inventory.  As I've already mentioned, rarely can I attain every goal set down in one year.  Sometimes, you just have to scratch some of the tougher ones off the list and forget about them.  Those would be things like, "Lose weight."  "Get taller."  But then, sometimes previous year goals can carry over.  This makes your job of setting new goals much easier!  Here are a few of my carry-over goals from last year, which I will be including in my list for this year.

1. Take a trip to Alaska on one of those cruises hosted by a local television celebrity and their lovely spouse
2. Beat my brothers-in-law at golf
3. Beat anyone at golf
4. Save enough money to pay someone to let me beat them at golf
5. Discover a way to make health food taste like a medium done, thick, juicy steak
6. Eat more health food
7. Arrange to put the Slap-Chop guy, the Progressive girl, and the "stars" from all local car dealer television ads in one room and see who can out-annoy the others. . . . .to death. . .like a cage match
8. Become one of those people who do nothing but write letters to the editor of the local newspaper
9. Become more tolerant of bad TV commercials and people who do nothing but write letters to the editor of the local newspaper.
10. Finish last year's Christmas shopping by February.  Okay March.

There!  Wow, I feel better already!  I'm well on my way to getting my goals set for 2011!  All things considered, I expect a great 2011.  You know, this is amazing, but writing this has been a catharsis for me.

Wait, I have to write that down. . .Look up 'catharis' and learn definition. 

I'd better stop before my list gets too long.  Then I wouldn't be able to attain any of my goals.  And I'm really looking forward to that cage match.  My money's on Flo.

A Shepherd's Story

Night to Day/Day to Night

By Keith Wilson

Three days ago I stood on a hillside just outside the walls of Jerusalem and watched while midday turned to night.  On that day, for almost 3 full hours, the sun quite miraculously ceased to shine, covering the region with a blanket of darkness like doom itself.

As I stood on that hillside, which they call Golgotha, tears made stained paths through the dust that covered my face.  At that moment, I thought of another such miracle I had witnessed some thirty-three years earlier.  On that occasion, I had been standing on another hillside, near the foothills of Shefalah.  Then, I had seen the night become day.

My name is Jareth.  In those days, I was a boy of thirteen.  I was, as I am still, a shepherd; like my brothers, and my father, and his father before him.   On that night our flock was sharing grazing land with the flock of my father’s brother–as well as the flock belonging to a family from north of the old city of Hebron.  Together, our sum was twenty-two: myself and my five brothers, my father’s brother and his seven sons, and from the other family the father and his seven sons.

My father was no longer able to navigate the rocky hills because of his age and ill health.  So, the burden of responsibility for our own flock of dependent sheep rested on the shoulders of my eldest brother, Zeth.

How I loved my brothers–Zeth in particular, for it was he who taught me the writings of the Old Ones when my father was no longer able to speak clearly.  I would try with all that was within me to speak as Zeth spoke, to mimic his actions–event try to duplicate his manner of walking.  Zeth made light of my attempts to be like him, but I didn’t mind.

My father–and later, Zeth–had told me of the coming of the Anointed One...The Messiah.  The Gentiles called him “the Christ.”  However he was called prior to his coming, he was, we believed, to be the living Son of God. 

As Jews, our family was but a few of our own who actually believed that the God of Abraham would deliver his son in the form of a man.  More than even that, we–again among the few of our faith–believed that the coming of the Messiah would occur within our lifetime!

That night, the air was very still.  The sky was clear of clouds and deeper blue than the Great Sea itself.  The stars shone in their fullness and the moon cast just enough light so that I could just make out the silhouettes of the resting flock. 

Each of the tending families took watch over their respective flocks.  And at this time of night, each sent their two youngest.  While my brothers and older cousins rested in the hollows of the rock outcroppings, I and my uncle’s youngest son tended the sheep.

My biggest chore was staying awake during these hours.  Most of the sheep slept, nestled near the big overhanging rocks where the older ones were sleeping.  I succumbed to a yawn as I pulled the sheep’s wool tunic tighter around my neck against the night chill.

It was my cousin who saw it first.

“Jareth!” He called excitedly from his station farther down the hill.  “Do you see it?”

I tried to see where his silhouetted arm was pointing.  “What is it?” I asked, keeping my voice low so as not to awaken the older ones unnecessarily.

“There!” He shouted loudly now.  “There, to the east, look!”

I saw it now.

At first, I thought a star was surely descending upon us.  It was a bright white light, moving slowly toward us until it illuminated the hillside and a portion of the field below.  The sheep were startled and began to move about, huddling and bumping against one another.  The men were awake now, standing and staring at the light, which was growing closer now. 

I felt as though I was paralyzed.  I wanted to yell–to scream, but no sound would come from my wide-opened mouth.  The men began shouting at each other from all directions.

“What is it?”
“I don’t know!”
“What can this mean?”
“Is this our death?”
“The sheep!  Quickly, gather your sheep!”

Then I heard Zeth’s voice above all others.  “All of you stand quiet!”   The authority in his voice calmed the others.

My eyes remained fixed on the bright light, which was now very near us, glowing a blue-white. 

Suddenly, a form began to take shape in the center of the light.  It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen!  It was wearing a long white gown that billowed in folds as if blown by some powerful wind as yet unfelt by us.

When the center of the light seemed to be just above our heads, a voice spoke.  The voice came from the gowned figure.  And I thought it was the most beautiful sound ever!

“Do not be afraid...I bring you good news!  News of great joy, which will be for all people!”

When the voice spoke, the fear subsided in us all.  Even the sheep were at ease now.  Again I heard Zeth’s voice, this time in an awe-inspired whisper.  “It is an angel of the Lord our God!”  He said, his voice trembling with excitement.

“Today, this day, in the town of David, a Savior has been born to you. . .He is Christ the Lord!”

I felt a hand on my shoulder, but could not turn my eyes from the angel in the light to see who it was.

“The old prophets were right, just as father said!”  I heard Zeth whisper into my ear.  I could hear the smile in his voice.

Again the angel spoke.  “This will be a sign to you: you will find the baby wrapped in bands of cloth, lying in a manger.”

When the angel had finished speaking, the night sky seemed to part like a great veil.  Slowly the darkness was replaced by a host of lights, similar to the messenger above us.  Angels!  Thousands and thousands of angels!  As far as the eyes could see, the angels appeared, their light shining as bright as noon-day!

I felt Zeth’s grip tighten on my shoulder.  “Jareth,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion.  “We are witnesses to the glory of the Lord!”

I drew in a long breath through my still-opened mouth as I gazed at this holy presentation.  With Zeth standing beside me, his strong hand on my shoulder, I tried again to speak but still no sound would leave my throat.

Suddenly, there was a great rushing sound.  A sound like a rapidly approaching rainstorm, but louder.  It was a sound like the longest pealing of thunder ever.  Then, a gust of wind struck us with enough force to put us all off balance!  The odd thing about that sudden burst of wind was that–it was warm.  Like the air that would come from the clay oven when my mother removed the baked bread.

I was finally able to move.  I turned to my brother.  I wanted to ask Zeth what it all meant.  But when I looked at his face, I saw tears.  Still looking at the miracle in the sky, his arms encircled me and drew me to his chest.  “My young brother,” he said in a barely audible voice, “We are standing in the presence of God!”

When I turned back to view this heavenly host, I heard them begin praising God.  Their song was beautiful!  I remember their words to this day.  “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace to men on whom his favor rests!”

More quickly than they had appeared, the host of angels left us and returned to the heavens.  The first messenger angel smiled upon us before joining the hosts in their retreat.

Zeth released me and walked three steps in front of me, now staring at the once again dark sky.  I stumbled over a rock as I moved up a step behind him.  I reached out and took hold of his tunic.  “Zeth, what does it mean?”

He looked down at me, then back to the sky, and once again back to my questioning eyes.

“What it means, young brother, is that we must go to Bethlehem, the town of David, to find the Messiah–the promised one!”

“Does God’s favor rest on us?” I asked, moving closer to Zeth, looking up at the sky again, as he was.

“Yes.  Yes, I feel it must be so!”  Zeth finally answered, “Else we would not have been witnesses to this thing!”

“The Messiah?  Resting in a feeding trough for cattle?”  The question came from the father of the other family.  “That hardly seems a fitting bed for the so-called ‘Living Son of God’!”

“Did you not witness the word of the Lord here, Na-mal?” Zeth asked the man.

“I’m not certain what I witnessed.”  The elder man answered, moving up the hillside toward us.  “It just does not seem possible, young one.”

Na-mal stood beside Zeth and looked down the hillside past the valley.  “What will you do, Zeth?”

“I and my eldest brothers will go to Bethlehem and find the baby.  We will leave Jareth here to tend our flock, along with my uncle and his sons.

When I heard this, I could not stop myself.  I lunged forward, grasping at Zeth’s arm.  “Zeth please!  I must be allowed to go with you!  I must see the one you and father have told me about!  Please, Zeth. . .I must see our Messiah!”

Zeth looked down at me.  He must have seen the longing in my eyes.  He leaned forward so that his eyes were level with mine, his hands on his knees.  “It will be a difficult journey, Jareth.”

“I am willing, Zeth–and strong enough!”

“As are we, cousin.”  My eldest cousin spoke.  “We will go as well.  Your young brother is right.  We must.”

My uncle took quick steps and joined us on the dark hillside.  “That is at it should be, Zeth.  I will stay, along with my youngest, to watch after our flocks.”  He placed his hand on Zeth’s shoulder.  “You must leave at the first sign of day. . .Or–I should say, the next sign of day, for we have just witnessed the first, have we not?”  He smiled and looked around at our group for affirmation.  His face once again took a serious tone.  “Come morning, I will send my youngest to inform your father as to what has happened here.”  He smiled again.  “He will be pleased, Zeth.”   

Zeth smiled at me, and then my uncle.  “He will be praising God, and praying for our safety guidance, Uncle.”  He reached out and locked forearms with my uncle in a traditional handshake of brotherhood.

“Look!  There in the sky to the east!”  My brother Elam shouted.

All our heads whirled in unison, first in the direction of Elam’s voice and then to where he pointed.                                   
There, low in the sky, was a star shining brighter than all the rest.  The star had many points of light radiating from its center.  The ray at the lowest point seemed to stretch to the earth itself.

“Is the star not in the direction of the town of David?”  Elam asked.

“It is indeed.”  My uncle answered.

“It is yet another sign from our Lord, for as Elam has noted, the star directs all who see it to the birthplace of the Messiah!”  Zeth said.

“I feel it is even more than that.” My uncle whispered.  “It is an indication of hope for mankind...it is an indication of a new beginning, as the angel said ‘for all people!’”

Our journey was three days and nights.  We arrived in Bethlehem two hours past the setting of the sun.  Zeth inquired of several innkeepers as to the whereabouts of the child.  None seemed to know.

The town of David was bulging with people of the region, there to enter their names on the census and to pay their taxes to the Roman government.  We struggled through the crowded streets to yet another inn.  Zeth motioned for the rest of us to wait outside as he entered.

I looked about, a bit frightened by the busyness of the crowds and the activity in the streets and alleyways, even at this late hour.  None of my family was accustomed to town life–least of all during the busiest time of the year.  I focused my attention on the front door of the inn.  After a few moments, Zeth came out.  He was smiling.

“That is why the child is in a manger!  There are simply no rooms available in the whole of Bethlehem!”   

He huddled us closer to him as he would do the youngest sheep in the flock.  “This innkeeper had to turn away a man whose wife was very near her time!”  The excitement in his voice caused us all to share in his anticipation.

“What became of the couple?” Elam impatiently asked Zeth for all of us.

“The innkeeper, when he heard of the woman’s condition, showed them to his own stable, so they could at least stay warm.”

“Was the child born then?” One of my cousins asked.

“Yes, according to the innkeeper, the woman gave birth to the baby only a few nights later!”  Zeth answered, his eyes glowing.

“When, Zeth?  When did the woman deliver the child?”  Elam asked, moving closer within our circle outside the inn.

Zeth stood up straight and looked over our heads, as if he wanted to gain the attention of all in the streets so that they might hear what he had to say.  “The child was born four nights ago.  About five hours after the setting of the sun.”

Elam stepped forward and put his hand on Zeth’s chest.  I could see Elam’s eyes welling with tears.  “Zeth,” he said breathlessly, “that was the exact hour the angels visited us in the field!  We—we have been truly blessed by God to have been told of this wonderful news!”   

“It is true, Elam.  We are blessed!”  Zeth put his hand on my head and smiled at me.  “Jareth, truly God’s favor does rest upon us!”  He gazed heavenward and began praising God loudly.  “All glory and praise be to God in the highest place, for we have found favor in his eyes!”

We all joined in praise for a time, oblivious to the looks from strangers in the streets.

My brother Zor-El spoke excitedly.  “We must go to this stable now and see this holy child in the manger!”

“Come, I will show the way.”  Zeth responded, breaking from our circle and stepping into the narrow alleyway that ran alongside the inn. 

The stable was just behind the inn.  We could see the glow of a fire near the stable and several people standing near. 

There were three men dressed differently than the rest.  They were attired as those from the east. 

“Zeth, who are those men?” I asked my brother as we hurried toward the stable.

“They are Magi, brother.  Men of wisdom from far to the east.  They must have been foretold of the birth of the Messiah!”

Elam took hold of Zeth’s shoulder.  “We do not know the name of the child–nor his mother or father!”

“We will ask.”

We approached the people near the fire.  Zeth strode ahead and inquired of a man who was warming his hands over the inviting blaze.
“We come seeking the child–the Son of the Living God.”

“Who is it that who asks?”  The man questioned, looking carefully first at Zeth then the rest of our group nearby.

“We are shepherds from the hills of Judea to the south.  We were visited by an angel of our Lord and told of the birth of the Messiah.  It is he whom we seek.” 

“Then you are welcome, brother.  I am sorry if I was rude...it is because of Herod Antipas.  He fears the birth of the holy one.  We do not know what he may do.”

“May we know the name of the child?” Zeth asked.

“He is called Jesus, as was ordained.”

“And the name of his mother and father?”

“His earthly father is Joseph, a carpenter from Nazareth.  He is of the line of David.  The child’s mother is called Mary.

“We must see them now, if we may.”

“You shall, brother.  Come, I will make your presence known to Joseph.”

We followed the man to the manger where the child rested.  He was a beautiful baby, completely at peace in his surroundings amid the straw and the people and the animals who shared the stable space.

Each of our group took our turn viewing the child.  This baby called Jesus—he smiled at me.  I know it to be true!  The Messiah smiled at me! 

We were in awe.  For the second time within the space of just a few days, we were standing in the very presence of God!  I had been witness to the child who would change the course of history forever!

We stayed in Bethlehem that night and the next, camping alongside the others who had come to see the child. When we left the stable early of that morning, and said our goodbyes to Mary and Joseph and the Messiah–this child called Jesus, we could not contain our joy!  We told everyone we saw of the birth of the Messiah!  On the streets of Bethlehem we proclaimed it.  On the road south of town, we stopped travelers to tell them of the good news! 

I have never known such joy as I felt during those days.  I could little understand then that I would one day experience heartache such as I have never known.

Now, some thirty-three years later, here I stand on this barren hill called Golgotha.  It was three days ago, right here on this place of misery, that I watched day turn to night.  Three days ago, in the midst of that darkness, I looked on with sorrow, and in horror, as Jesus was crucified.

Jesus.  The same Messiah I had seen as a newborn babe had been mercilessly nailed to a thick wooden cross and hung there for all to see.  I could scarcely believe what my eyes were seeing.  Nor did I wish to believe it. 

In the third hour of the darkness, I heard Jesus cry out, but I could not understand what he said.  Then he cried out for the last time, and that cry I did understand.

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

I saw his broken body slump there on that vile wooden structure–that inhuman implement of death.  I knew Jesus was dead. 

I wept so I could no longer see through the flood of tears.  My heart felt as though it was being torn from my chest.

“How could this be?” I thought aloud.  “The son of the Living God, the King of Kings, my Savior and Lord–the Messiah, left to die!” 

Suddenly, the ground began to shake violently beneath my feet!  The earth was rumbling.  I saw great rocks breaking.  I cried aloud, “It is the Lord our God!  He himself feels the pain, for it is his son who has perished!”

I wandered among the circles of believers following his death on that cross.  Many talked of his returning–of his resurrection from death itself.  Some were afraid for their lives because of their beliefs.  Others, like me, could feel only the pain, and a great sense of loss.

Early this morning, just before the sun rose, I felt the earth move once again.  I was standing with a group of believers when this happened.  We were sharing stories of our various encounters with Jesus.  When the rumblings began, a young woman I do not know shouted loudly, “It is a sign!  The prophecies are being fulfilled!  He is no longer among the dead!”

I felt the hair on my arms and the back of my neck bristling.  Could this be true?  Could it be that the Son of God is returning from a thing as certain as death?

Within the hour, a man came running to our group.  He was breathless and wide-eyed. “Have you heard?” He asked, gasping for air.  “Have you heard the glorious news?”

“What news do you bring, sir?” I asked as we encircled the excited messenger.

“It is true!  It is just as was foretold!” He continued between breaths.

A man from among our group of believers stepped forward and grasped the messenger’s cloak.  “What is true?  Does our Lord live?”  He asked, his voice overflowing with anticipation.

“A woman, her name is Joanna, had gone with others to the tomb of our Lord!  They were bringing spices for the body.  But when they arrived, they were met by an angel of the Lord!”

When I heard of the angelic appearance, I stepped closer to the man.  “What had the angel to say to the women, brother?”

The messenger’s posture took on a change as he looked about our circle.  “The angel asked this question: ‘Why do you look for the living—among the dead?’”

“Then it is true?” Another asked.  “Our Lord has been resurrected?”

“It must be so!” The messenger replied.

“Then—he is risen from the dead?” A young boy asked, struggling to get closer in our circle.

I reached out and held the young boy’s face in my hands.  In his eyes, I saw myself as a young shepherd boy those thirty-three years ago.”

“It is as you said, young one.”  I said, looking into his innocent eyes.  “He has risen.  He has surely risen!”

Just then, I heard a voice calling my name.  I looked about the group to see who had spoken.  No one responded to my inquisitive glance, for they were all still trying to understand the messenger’s words.

“Jareth.”

This time I heard the voice clearly.  It was coming from within me!

“Jareth, do not be afraid.”   The voice said.  “Jareth, you have found favor in the eyes of God because of your faith.” 

It was then that I realized that what I was hearing was the voice of the Holy Spirit!   I felt peace such as I had never felt, and I could not help but smile.

“Sir?”  The young boy tugged at my tunic.  “Do you really believe?  Do you really believe his has risen?”

A tear fell from my face and splashed in the dust at my feet. “Oh yes, I believe it!  I know it in my heart!  Jesus has risen!”

No Thunderstorms in Heaven

"Belle"

September 28, 2009.  That was the day we had to say goodbye to our beloved Golden Retriever companion and friend, Belle.  That very tough, very sad day came sharply back into focus for me this past week.  Our friend, Laura, had to make that same difficult decision to let go and say goodbye to her own Golden Retriever, Mac.

There is something innate in Golden Retrievers--all dogs, really, but Goldens in particular because of the very nature of the breed--that endears them to their masters in a way that is inexplicable to any but the truest of dog lovers.

World renowned suspense thriller author Dean Koontz, himself a Golden Retriever enthusiast, explains it this way: "Golden Retrievers are not bred to be guard dogs, and considering the size of their hearts and their irrepressible joy in life, they are less likely to bite than to bark, less likely to bark than to lick a hand in greeting. In spite of their size, they think they are lap dogs, and in spite of being dogs, they think they are also human, and nearly every human they meet is judged to have the potential to be a boon companion who might, at many moment, cry, "Let's go!" and lead them on a great adventure." 

Belle, in earlier days, with my daughter, Mitzi

I could definitely sympathize with Laura as she had to make that terrible, but logical and unselfish choice.  The last thing in the world you want to do is prolong the pain the old dog is struggling through.  In Belle's case, it was a tumor on her liver, and severe arthritis in her hips and spine.  With Mac it was Lymphoma along with the arthritis that so often accompanies the aging large breed dog.  In both cases, the decision had to be made to give the dog the peace they deserved.

"Mac"

We had Belle for 14 years and a little over two months.  She never could understand why anyone she might meet would not want her to give them lots of kisses.  If anyone who came around did not share our love of dogs, she somehow knew it and did her level best to make friends with them and lick them.  She was the most gentle and loving dog I have ever known.  She would let children pull her ears or her tail, try to ride her, or just squeeze her very hard because they loved her, and she never complained.  Even in her last days of being so very sick, she never complained or whined.  She even managed to look apologetic because she didn't make it outside to be sick.

Belle always wanted to go for a car ride, and always wanted the windows down.  She never minded the trips to the vet or the shots.  She loved fresh vegetables.  She loved bacon grease. And she loved her younger "sister," our other Golden Retriever, Annie.

Belle never made fun of our golf games or our singing abilities; never told us we needed to lose weight; never said our hair looked bad.  She never complained about the food she was given or the way she felt when she hurt.  All she ever "asked" was to be with us.  And maybe to lick the gravy bowl, and to snuggle between us when thunderstorms came.

We know that we made the best decision for her, although, it was hard not to be selfish and keep her with us for as long as we could.  But I got to be with her when she went to sleep, stroking her big furry body and talking to her as she left us. 

When I first picked Belle out of the litter, she was barely three weeks old. I selected her because, when I picked her up and held her close enough to check out her eyes, she kissed me on my nose...almost as if she were saying, "Hello!"  When she went to sleep that day, I kissed her on her nose and said goodbye.

If I had to write one short sentence to serve as her epitaph, it would be this: "She simply lived to love." 

Our other special girl, Annie, is officially named "Wilson's AnnaBelle Lee".  I chose this name for two reasons: first, it contains "Belle" in her name, a way of keeping Belle with us whenever that time came.  And, two, it is from the Edgar Allan Poe poem, "Annabel Lee" (I modified the spelling to "AnnaBelle").  There is a line in that poem that says,
"...And this maiden, she lived
With no other thought
Than to love,
and be loved by me."

That certainly describes both of our Golden Retrievers, and Belle embodied that statement for 14 years.  We miss her terribly, but knowing that she no longer hurts makes our grief a bit easier to take. 

In November last year, we brought Maggie into our lives.  Maggie is a reddish Golden, like Belle.  Although she's just over a year old now, she's all puppy.  And she's all Golden.  Annie is the big sister now, taking over that role from Belle.

Annie, patiently playing the "big sister" to the younger Maggie

Like Belle, Mac never got used to thunderstorms.  For Mac, they were the worst thing that could possibly happen to a dog!   When Laura had to make that horrible decision last week, she said to us, through tears, "At least there are no thunderstorms in heaven..."    And there is no pain.

I know that today, Mac and Belle are pain-free, playing and running together through grassy fields and sunny days; ears laid back, and feathers bouncing as they bark at each other to "hurry up!", stopping occasionally to nuzzle each other as Goldens do.  And as Laura said, there are no thunderstorms to interrupt their peace.  Their perfect, painless peace.

We miss you, Belle.