No, you read the title right. It may sound a little awkward, but it’s what I meant to say. I have had a couple brushes with public fame, but none have so far brought me any fortune. But maybe you’d like to hear about them; and then again, maybe you wouldn’t. Either way, they’re the subject of this blog entry.
It’s really not easy being famous. You have the people bugging you, of course, and the constant requests for recognition or money (the latter of which I cannot offer). The worst part to me, however, is the tedious grind. Did you know you can get arthritis from getting famous? It’s true – arthritis in the wrist from the repetitive motion of pre-writing autographs on little cards so I can throw them into open car windows or put them on windshields or leave them in public places for lucky people to find. And then there’s the lack of privacy. But somebody has to do it.
The first time I got famous was on a New Year’s Eve, and it wasn’t even at a party. I was minding my own business (that’s the way fame often likes to strike) at the local junior-high track, working out. I had just finished a lap when a strange-looking man with an expensive-looking camera approached me very purposefully, as if I was just the man he wanted to see. And I was, for he asked (very politely, but very purposefully) if he could get a few pictures of me. It may have been my striking physique, but the fact that it was a strange-looking man asking the question disturbed me not a little until he explained that he was from the Houston Chronicle. He worked as a photographer for the section that covered our county (Brazoria), and as he swung by the track, he saw me and thought I might be an interesting subject.
Well, he wanted action shots, so I went back into action. It really is a strange feeling to have someone follow you and to hear their camera click at you. But I put up with it, and I even struck a somewhat dramatic pose every few passes. After he was done, he asked me a few simple questions (name, what I was doing there at the track, etc.) and then thanked me for the photo opportunity and left – it was that simple. A few weeks later, my fame arrived in the form of a Thursday newspaper edition with my picture in the corner of the front of the Brazoria County section, with its very own caption (but no article). Dad bought up several copies (one of which I still have), and I fielded a few phone calls of congratulations that day. Okay, maybe only one.
My fame lay dormant until just recently, as many of you are probably aware of. It again struck quite unexpectedly. It was the end of March, and I was with my Dad on a service project headed by my church. We were at an area elementary school helping it with various indoor and outdoor projects. Since my back is weak as well as my mind, I stayed indoors while Dad worked on the outdoor project. The project I found myself a part of was re-painting the principal’s office.
Now, I am certainly not a good painter, and nor do I play one on television. But they gave me a roller and a container of paint and told me to get to work, so I did. Of course, I got paint outside the acceptable lines as well as on my clothes, wheelchair, and hands in various messy ways (I noticed to my chagrin that all the other painters were as clean as they were accurate). But I painted away, and it came to the attention of a church photographer, who was no doubt documenting the event for the church magazine. Again, it must have been my striking physique, because it surely was not my mad painting skills. She camped out near me and began clicking away as I painted. Of course, being a veteran at this by now, I simply acted as if I was not aware of any cameras in the room.
I thought that was the end of the whole matter, but imagine my surprise when a friend told me, “Did you know you’re on the cover of the church magazine?” I didn’t expect any photos of me to even be published, and if they had, I’d have settled for inside the magazine or maybe even the back cover. But the front? This was amazing! I refused to believe it until I laid eyes on the actual magazine itself, which came out in May*. Sure enough, there I was, paint roller in my outstretched right hand and a very “down-to-business” look on my face. There was also my striking physique, but I’ve already mentioned that.
There seemed to be no end to the back-slaps and congratulations around church after that. “Hey, you’re famous!” they said. “Hey, you’re on the cover of ‘Sagemont Life’!” they said. I just smiled and quietly acknowledged the fact. And so this round of fame has at least another couple days left in it, before the next issue of the magazine comes out and a new person becomes famous. But that’s what fame is. It’s fickle, and it changes its mind so easily concerning on whom it shall shine next, and for how long. It has chosen to shine on me twice, and both times it has been in the form of a photograph. All I can say is – it must be my striking physique.
*Author’s Note: I personally have 13 copies of this magazine with the famous cover, and if any reader would like a copy, just let me know – and when you do, specify if you would like it autographed or not. You can also get a look at the magazine by going to http://www.sagemontchurch.org/learn/sagemontlife/index.htm and clicking on “May 2009”.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Of Wheelies, Spills, Stairs, and Stares
In thinking of something to write today, I remembered the old writer’s adage, “write what you know”; and then I made up another one, “write what you’ve already written.” The resulting blog entry (this one) is a combination of the two sayings. The first saying is pretty self-explanatory, but the second should not be taken completely literally, because no one wants to read a repeat. What I had in mind was an elaboration on a subject already introduced before in this blog.
You see, back around January, I wrote the article “A Reply to Vicarious Pleasure-Seekers”, about my lack of any desire to attach jet engines to my wheelchair and have at it. In that article, I mentioned that this is a frequent suggestion from friends (it is worth noting that just the other day I received the suggestion again) and is only one of the interesting experiences I have had in connection with being in a wheelchair. So today I asked myself, “Why not write about some more such experiences?” And this I shall now do.
If I had a dime for every time I have been asked this certain question, I’d never have to work. That question is, “Can you pop a wheelie in that (meaning my chair)?” Now, if you are uninformed, to “pop a wheelie” simply means to apply pressure to my larger back wheels in such a way that the front of my chair lifts up into the air, not unlike a bucking bronco. In my personal opinion, the “wheelie” is just about the most boring, most uneventful, and, quite frankly, dullest maneuver one can do in a wheelchair. I never do it for fun (that would be dorky), and I only do one when it comes in quite handy for getting over curbs and other speed bumps. However, my friends and, most often, children seem to think it is worth paying good money to see. So if they ask, I oblige and show them that I can indeed “pop a wheelie”. Oh, and if you worry that a wheelie done incorrectly will surely tip the chair over backwards, you are correct; but roughly twenty years of experience in handling a wheelchair is enough to ensure that this will probably not happen very often, if at all.
I have also been challenged to a race. You see, people like to see just how fast I can go in my chair, and sometimes they want to race me on foot. This does not happen all that often, but it’s a good workout when it does. Then there are those people who like to push me in my chair as fast as they can possibly do so while at a dead run. This has happened with ever-lessening frequency as I have gotten older, but it used to happen occasionally, at the hands of both adults and children, and unexpectedly just as often as otherwise. It makes the occupant of the chair not a little wary of the pusher’s steering skills.
Of course, there are the spills. These can happen in a variety of ways. I could fall off a steep curb. I could tip over backwards. I have also tipped over sideways, which is not common. Tipping over in a forward direction is actually the most common of all, and can be effected by hitting a bump, getting a front wheel caught in a very uneven patch of ground, or putting my weight too far toward the foot rest. I don’t mind taking spills – I’ve never been seriously hurt in one and I have no problem righting my vehicle and getting back into it. But the fact remains that spills are embarrassing. If it happens when someone is pushing me, it is embarrassing to them as well, and much time is spent in asking forgiveness or if I’m all right, when it’s all perfectly fine and to expected every once in a while. If the spill happens at my own hands, my chief desire is for it to be in as uncrowded a place as possible, lest I draw unwanted attention to myself. Actually, if you think about it, spills are kind of funny – but no one laughs when a person falls out of his wheelchair (except perhaps my sister). It’s politically incorrect. But I guarantee you I would laugh if I saw myself fall out of my chair.
Stores and other public places are always interesting, especially if there’s little room for my chair, which makes my person wider than it would otherwise be. Thus I often have to make sure I’m not in the way – and in crowded places this can be quite annoying. I have actually ridden an escalator in my chair, and getting up stairs is an interesting experience. I have approached a staircase in one of two ways. The first is to get out, climb the stairs myself, and have someone with me pull the unoccupied chair up separately. The second is to have anywhere from one to four persons literally hoist and carry me and my chair up or down the stairs. This latter method is actually fairly risky, but I have never had a carrier drop (literally) his end of the bargain, and nor have I ever fallen down a staircase.
For as long as I can remember, there have been stares. And this is to be expected, since a person in a wheelchair is different from the general population; you don’t see someone like me every day. Of course, most of the people doing the staring are children, which is perfectly understandable. I often hear them ask their mom (sometimes even as they point) “What’s wrong with that guy?” A few kids have even been brave enough to ask me directly what is wrong with me. The most common way they ask it is, “Did you break your leg?” As for older people staring at me, that is not nearly as common as with children, but when it happens it can be a little disturbing.* It may also surprise you, as it does me, that I have hardly ever been seriously made fun of (besides, of course, the jokes that the joker and I both find funny) for my disability, even when I was a kid.
I have been unable to walk since birth, so my disability feels very normal to me. It does not make me bitter or sad, though a little self-consciousness is always normal. I feel most comfortable when my friends and others treat me as “just one of the guys”; I don’t seek sympathy or pity or special treatment. Whenever I need help, I will usually ask, but more often than not I will try to find a way to do whatever it is myself.
However, since I don’t focus all that heavily on what makes me different, I don’t talk or write about it much, which may be unfortunate since I know some people are probably curious (but may not be comfortable enough to talk about it with me). I hope you find this article not only entertaining but a little informative as well.
*Author’s Note: Nowadays older people (particularly females) stare at me quite often, but that is a totally unrelated matter from the one discussed here.
You see, back around January, I wrote the article “A Reply to Vicarious Pleasure-Seekers”, about my lack of any desire to attach jet engines to my wheelchair and have at it. In that article, I mentioned that this is a frequent suggestion from friends (it is worth noting that just the other day I received the suggestion again) and is only one of the interesting experiences I have had in connection with being in a wheelchair. So today I asked myself, “Why not write about some more such experiences?” And this I shall now do.
If I had a dime for every time I have been asked this certain question, I’d never have to work. That question is, “Can you pop a wheelie in that (meaning my chair)?” Now, if you are uninformed, to “pop a wheelie” simply means to apply pressure to my larger back wheels in such a way that the front of my chair lifts up into the air, not unlike a bucking bronco. In my personal opinion, the “wheelie” is just about the most boring, most uneventful, and, quite frankly, dullest maneuver one can do in a wheelchair. I never do it for fun (that would be dorky), and I only do one when it comes in quite handy for getting over curbs and other speed bumps. However, my friends and, most often, children seem to think it is worth paying good money to see. So if they ask, I oblige and show them that I can indeed “pop a wheelie”. Oh, and if you worry that a wheelie done incorrectly will surely tip the chair over backwards, you are correct; but roughly twenty years of experience in handling a wheelchair is enough to ensure that this will probably not happen very often, if at all.
I have also been challenged to a race. You see, people like to see just how fast I can go in my chair, and sometimes they want to race me on foot. This does not happen all that often, but it’s a good workout when it does. Then there are those people who like to push me in my chair as fast as they can possibly do so while at a dead run. This has happened with ever-lessening frequency as I have gotten older, but it used to happen occasionally, at the hands of both adults and children, and unexpectedly just as often as otherwise. It makes the occupant of the chair not a little wary of the pusher’s steering skills.
Of course, there are the spills. These can happen in a variety of ways. I could fall off a steep curb. I could tip over backwards. I have also tipped over sideways, which is not common. Tipping over in a forward direction is actually the most common of all, and can be effected by hitting a bump, getting a front wheel caught in a very uneven patch of ground, or putting my weight too far toward the foot rest. I don’t mind taking spills – I’ve never been seriously hurt in one and I have no problem righting my vehicle and getting back into it. But the fact remains that spills are embarrassing. If it happens when someone is pushing me, it is embarrassing to them as well, and much time is spent in asking forgiveness or if I’m all right, when it’s all perfectly fine and to expected every once in a while. If the spill happens at my own hands, my chief desire is for it to be in as uncrowded a place as possible, lest I draw unwanted attention to myself. Actually, if you think about it, spills are kind of funny – but no one laughs when a person falls out of his wheelchair (except perhaps my sister). It’s politically incorrect. But I guarantee you I would laugh if I saw myself fall out of my chair.
Stores and other public places are always interesting, especially if there’s little room for my chair, which makes my person wider than it would otherwise be. Thus I often have to make sure I’m not in the way – and in crowded places this can be quite annoying. I have actually ridden an escalator in my chair, and getting up stairs is an interesting experience. I have approached a staircase in one of two ways. The first is to get out, climb the stairs myself, and have someone with me pull the unoccupied chair up separately. The second is to have anywhere from one to four persons literally hoist and carry me and my chair up or down the stairs. This latter method is actually fairly risky, but I have never had a carrier drop (literally) his end of the bargain, and nor have I ever fallen down a staircase.
For as long as I can remember, there have been stares. And this is to be expected, since a person in a wheelchair is different from the general population; you don’t see someone like me every day. Of course, most of the people doing the staring are children, which is perfectly understandable. I often hear them ask their mom (sometimes even as they point) “What’s wrong with that guy?” A few kids have even been brave enough to ask me directly what is wrong with me. The most common way they ask it is, “Did you break your leg?” As for older people staring at me, that is not nearly as common as with children, but when it happens it can be a little disturbing.* It may also surprise you, as it does me, that I have hardly ever been seriously made fun of (besides, of course, the jokes that the joker and I both find funny) for my disability, even when I was a kid.
I have been unable to walk since birth, so my disability feels very normal to me. It does not make me bitter or sad, though a little self-consciousness is always normal. I feel most comfortable when my friends and others treat me as “just one of the guys”; I don’t seek sympathy or pity or special treatment. Whenever I need help, I will usually ask, but more often than not I will try to find a way to do whatever it is myself.
However, since I don’t focus all that heavily on what makes me different, I don’t talk or write about it much, which may be unfortunate since I know some people are probably curious (but may not be comfortable enough to talk about it with me). I hope you find this article not only entertaining but a little informative as well.
*Author’s Note: Nowadays older people (particularly females) stare at me quite often, but that is a totally unrelated matter from the one discussed here.
Monday, May 25, 2009
In Memoriam
Stop. Whatever it is you’re doing. Maybe you’re at a get-together, or barbecuing, or shopping at a blockbuster holiday sale, or just sitting back, watching a ballgame, and enjoying the tail end of a three-day weekend. Whatever it is, stop for a moment. Stop and reflect on the fact that, whatever it is you’re doing, it came to you at a price paid by others. And that’s not just something we say because someone designated today as Memorial Day. It is a very real statement of fact.
Today we say “thank you” to those brave people who cannot hear us say it because they went to war “over there” and never came back. We remember the nameless, faceless figures who fill the pages of our history books, people our battle paintings, and are portrayed in our war movies. They may be only a concept to us, but each was a real person, with feelings and dreams and families and, in most cases, most of their lives ahead of them. But they chose to risk all of that for their country. Someone has wisely pointed out that America, for all of its great military power and reach, has neither asked nor gotten anything in return for its sorrow except enough ground to bury her dead. We are now, whether we realize it or not, reaping the fruit of the labors of those long dead, who neither knew us nor had us in mind when they died; they were thinking only of those back home, whom they would never see again – a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a spouse, a sweetheart, a best friend. We get to live the comparatively carefree lives they would have liked to have lived, in part because of their sacrifice.
Our generation is no stranger to armed conflict, and neither was our father’s, or our grandfather’s, or our great-grandfather’s. Perhaps you know someone who has gone off to war, and perhaps you know of one who did not come back. I myself have a ancestor, my great-grandmother’s brother, son of Slovak immigrants, who went back to the old continent to fight for the Allied cause in World War I. He was killed in a train accident just as he was coming back from the front when the war was over and won – a tragic way to die in a theater filled with nothing but tragedy.
But there were other scenes no less tragic. Think of the soldier who falls on a live grenade to save his buddies. Think of the man who died charging up that hill which no one ever noted or long remembered, or ever knew why it was worth charging up. Think of the countless numbers who died swimming ashore at Normandy and never got to liberate France or the rest of tyranny-enslaved Europe. Think of those hundreds of thousands who died at the hands of their own countrymen in the Civil War. Think of those surprised by death at Pearl Harbor, or taken off-guard by a harmless-looking suicide bomber in Iraq or an invisible guerrilla in Vietnam.
We can shudder as we read numbers. Over half a million died in the Civil War. Almost that many died in World War II. America was in World War I for only a year and a half, but over 100,000 died there. And there are thousands and thousands more. But behind all of those numbers – each digit and each comma – there is a face, a real person who once lived and breathed like we all do today. We have each and every one of those individuals to thank, and as Abraham Lincoln said, we cannot ever repay those who gave the last full measure of devotion.
They did not die just for watermelons and hot dogs and volleyball and baseball and furniture sales and fireworks. They died for freedom. They stopped living so that we could continue to live by the ideal that all men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Without their sacrifice we would be in danger today of being thrown in prison for disagreeing with the government, or put on trial for something we wore, or killed for being Jewish or for worshipping God. It is not only we who give thanks today, but hopefully all the millions in the other countries for which American blood was and is shed.
You can go on now. Eat your watermelon – it won’t be cold much longer. Get back to your conversation or your friendly game. Un-mute your TV or continue with your bargain-hunting. I just wanted to make sure we all remembered what this day was really all about. On the face of it, all these things are free – but they’re really not. Somebody else paid for them. Freedom isn’t free. If we ever stop stopping now and then to remember that, I suppose we won’t be free anymore. Oh, and one more thing – if you’re reading this and you did come back from “over there” – thank you. Thank you for your service to our great nation.
Today we say “thank you” to those brave people who cannot hear us say it because they went to war “over there” and never came back. We remember the nameless, faceless figures who fill the pages of our history books, people our battle paintings, and are portrayed in our war movies. They may be only a concept to us, but each was a real person, with feelings and dreams and families and, in most cases, most of their lives ahead of them. But they chose to risk all of that for their country. Someone has wisely pointed out that America, for all of its great military power and reach, has neither asked nor gotten anything in return for its sorrow except enough ground to bury her dead. We are now, whether we realize it or not, reaping the fruit of the labors of those long dead, who neither knew us nor had us in mind when they died; they were thinking only of those back home, whom they would never see again – a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a spouse, a sweetheart, a best friend. We get to live the comparatively carefree lives they would have liked to have lived, in part because of their sacrifice.
Our generation is no stranger to armed conflict, and neither was our father’s, or our grandfather’s, or our great-grandfather’s. Perhaps you know someone who has gone off to war, and perhaps you know of one who did not come back. I myself have a ancestor, my great-grandmother’s brother, son of Slovak immigrants, who went back to the old continent to fight for the Allied cause in World War I. He was killed in a train accident just as he was coming back from the front when the war was over and won – a tragic way to die in a theater filled with nothing but tragedy.
But there were other scenes no less tragic. Think of the soldier who falls on a live grenade to save his buddies. Think of the man who died charging up that hill which no one ever noted or long remembered, or ever knew why it was worth charging up. Think of the countless numbers who died swimming ashore at Normandy and never got to liberate France or the rest of tyranny-enslaved Europe. Think of those hundreds of thousands who died at the hands of their own countrymen in the Civil War. Think of those surprised by death at Pearl Harbor, or taken off-guard by a harmless-looking suicide bomber in Iraq or an invisible guerrilla in Vietnam.
We can shudder as we read numbers. Over half a million died in the Civil War. Almost that many died in World War II. America was in World War I for only a year and a half, but over 100,000 died there. And there are thousands and thousands more. But behind all of those numbers – each digit and each comma – there is a face, a real person who once lived and breathed like we all do today. We have each and every one of those individuals to thank, and as Abraham Lincoln said, we cannot ever repay those who gave the last full measure of devotion.
They did not die just for watermelons and hot dogs and volleyball and baseball and furniture sales and fireworks. They died for freedom. They stopped living so that we could continue to live by the ideal that all men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Without their sacrifice we would be in danger today of being thrown in prison for disagreeing with the government, or put on trial for something we wore, or killed for being Jewish or for worshipping God. It is not only we who give thanks today, but hopefully all the millions in the other countries for which American blood was and is shed.
You can go on now. Eat your watermelon – it won’t be cold much longer. Get back to your conversation or your friendly game. Un-mute your TV or continue with your bargain-hunting. I just wanted to make sure we all remembered what this day was really all about. On the face of it, all these things are free – but they’re really not. Somebody else paid for them. Freedom isn’t free. If we ever stop stopping now and then to remember that, I suppose we won’t be free anymore. Oh, and one more thing – if you’re reading this and you did come back from “over there” – thank you. Thank you for your service to our great nation.
Friday, May 22, 2009
The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Chapter Four
Chapter IV. – In Which Byron Warren is Upstaged, not Once, but Twice.
Be he, or be he not, destined to grow up into the most interesting man in the world, a young firstborn lad in most average American families is bound, sooner or later, to be subjected the most unpleasant of indignities. Call such indignity what you will – newcomer, usurper, pretender to the throne, competitor, or rival – it is bound to be welcomed (or not welcomed, as the case may be) in roughly the same fashion by all young firstborn lads. This fashion is bound, in more cases than not, to be quite a surprising nuisance in the eyes of the parents of young firstborn lads; but be that as it may, it remains true, as many of my fellow former young firstborn lads may tell you, to a man.
Byron Warren was seven years old when it happened. In fact, he had but lately turned that bright age of seven, for the month was June. Mr. Horatio Warren had, for roughly nine months previous to this point, maintained a strange but nonetheless stoic and consistent silence around his son, which no doubt perplexed the latter and not a little embarrassed the former. However, though I speak entirely upon my own initiative in this matter (and not from direct knowledge of the case), I believe the cause for this unease between father and son is quite explainable, though not quite understandable or excusable to most of us.
You see, the notable Santa Claus episode had greatly damaged Mr. Horatio Warren’s psyche as a father, for obvious reasons to those who read that notable chapter. After finding that Mrs. Leona Warren was with child, Mr. Warren’s injured ego forced him to take drastic, though probably entirely unnecessary, steps. He determined then and there that he would not tell his son Byron about this development until the moment of birth was at hand. The fear that drove this action was simple – if he told young Byron that he was going to have a younger sibling, he feared he might be forced to sit down with the former and discuss the facts of life much too soon for either of their good. And since Byron was now bound to take most of what his father said with a grain or two of salt, Mr. Warren found it prudent to keep his mouth entirely shut. And since Mrs. Warren pledged that if her husband wasn’t going to say anything about it until the last moment, neither was she, Byron was simply not going to know until that moment – for when Mrs. Leona Nora Warren, nee Crabapple, pledged something, it was as good as backed by the full faith and credit of the United States government, and then some.
Well, you can imagine, since we all know that Byron Warren was a thinker even at that tender age if he was nothing else, that the young firstborn lad was wondering why his mother’s tummy had suddenly assumed a strangely round and ever-growing shape. You can be sure that he gave voice to his inquisitive thoughts and asked both his parents what was the matter with Mom. At which Mrs. Warren just quietly assured him, “You’ll see”; and Mr. Warren would nervously pick up a book or the newspaper and tell his son not to bother him. It didn’t help when he saw his parents furnishing a spare room with all manner of baby toys and clothes and furniture, things that even Byron knew he was much too old for. He tried to question even this, but all he got was a curt reply that he should stay out of other people’s rooms.
But at last the day, June 19, came. Mr. Warren did not yet know it was the day, for he was sitting quite calmly in his easy chair; however, Mrs. Warren’s shriek quickly jolted him to attention. He ran to where his wife was, and by a series of hand gestures, facial expressions, and semi-intelligible phrases, he was notified that “it” was coming, and would not wait.
Horatio Warren first attempted to help his wife walk out to the car, but she was not even able to arise from the couch. Then he attempted to do what he was not then in the habit of doing (that is, carrying his wife) and found himself unable to do it; whereupon Horatio Warren picked up the telephone and called Dr. Merrill.
Now, Dr. Merrill was not wont to make house calls, but this would surely be an exception. You see, ever since he had helped the Warrens name their firstborn son, and ever since the Warrens had obligingly named Dr. Merrill as young Byron’s godfather, the good doctor was never known to deny a request from that family. Indeed, he was known to dine with them on occasion and even to golf with Mr. Warren. On the day in question, Mr. Warren’s telephone call could not have come at a more opportune time. Dr. Merrill had no sooner heard Horatio’s plea for help than he at once cut short his appointment with old Mrs. Jennings, the hypochondriac, by giving her a placebo. Then he was off to the Warren residence at speeds well over the accepted limit.
Meanwhile, young Byron was very much perplexed by his mother’s pained wailing and by his father’s confused attempts at allaying her distress. When he asked what was wrong, Mr. Warren realized that the time was at hand to tell his son. Mr. Warren, as you shall soon see, could not have more royally botched his opportunity.
“Well, son, you see…ah…you know how your mother’s tummy is all big and round?” he began cautiously.
“Yes,” replied the boy.
“Well, it’s about to not get so big and round!” stated Mr. Warren as emphatically as if that was all there was to the matter. Byron’s scrunched face assured him otherwise.
“You see, son, your mother is about to have a baby. That means you are about to be a big brother!”
Byron smiled broadly. “Oh, so you mean it’s like what Freddy says about what happened with his mom and how…”
Mr. Warren cut his son short. “Yes, yes! It means you will soon have a new little baby brother or sister to play with!”
“But how did…” Mr. Warren did not let his son finish. Mr. Warren, in his excited state, was too ready to jump to conclusions. He assumed, incorrectly, that his son wanted more information than was needed, and since he assumed this, he did not give his son a simple seven-year-old answer, as you or I would no doubt have. Instead, he gave his son a three-year-old answer and told a totally needless whopper, as follows.
“Um…you see, son…when a mommy and a daddy are lonely and want a new son or daughter – not that we’re lonely with you around, son, but perhaps they want more than one child – you see, they send for the stork!”
“The stork?” Byron’s face was even more scrunched than before.
“Yes. The stork is a big white bird with long legs and a long beak, and he delivers babies to mommies and daddies!” The whopper couldn’t have been bigger if he had added that the stork makes dill pickles.
Even Byron knew this, which is why he ignored his father’s answer. “But how is mommy’s stomach going to get smaller – and why is it so big now?”
“Well, son…” The words were hardly out of Mr. Warren’s mouth when there came a sharp rap at the door. Before Mr. Warren could move to get the door, the door opened of its own accord – or should I say, it was opened by an energetic newcomer with a black bag.
“It is I, the stork!” shouted Dr. Merrill good-naturedly, as if delivering babies were the most joyous, knee-slapping good time you could imagine. “Where’s the patient?”
“She’s on the couch in the living…” began Mr. Warren, but Dr. Merrill strode past him as if he already knew the answer to his question. He kneeled by the couch and quickly assumed firm command of the situation.
“All right, Pa, no slacking now – we’re going to have a home birth here! Boil up some water, man – you should have been doing this fifteen minutes ago! I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s here before you even get back! And I just know it’s going to be a ‘he’ – I can tell by the way she screams! Easy, now!”
As Dr. Merrill was busy barking orders to everyone including the house cat, Mr. Warren was nearly ready to swoon. In fact, that is just what he did after he had complied with several of the doctor’s requests.
“All right, Pa, we need a couple more rags, wash cloths, handkerchiefs, whatever you have handy…Mama’s sweating up a storm, and what good is a Pa if he can’t – Pa? Oh, blast it all, he’s out cold on the chair. Hey, B. W.,” – this was Dr. Merrill’s pet name for the boy – “could you get me another wash cloth or a towel or something? Hurry!”
Byron was off in a flash, and he ran more than a few other errands for the doctor during the whole process. In fact, the boy even mopped his mother’s brow and soothed her by giving her gentle hugs around the neck – something Mr. Warren would no doubt have been doing himself if he was not still laid out on his easy chair. Mrs. Warren, as has been duly noted before, was a strong woman, and seven years had not abated her original child-bearing strength; besides, having a strong man and a competent doctor beside you and being surrounded by the comfortable environment of home don’t hurt matters one iota.
“Pa, look alive – here they come!” shouted Dr. Merrill. Mr. Warren was not so far gone that the sudden sharp cry from the doctor did not cause him to open his eyes and to faintly stir.
“What? What did you say?”
“I said look alive, Pa! Here they come!”
“They? Who’s they?”
“I’m not talking about the IRS, man, or the police! I’m talking about your twins!”
Mr. Warren slumped back into his easy chair, ashen. “Twins!”
“Yes, twins, or my name isn’t Dr. Merrill! B. W., looks like you’re about to be outnumbered!” At this the boy smiled broadly again.
Mrs. Warren even spoke up now in between her groans. “Are you serious, doctor? There’s two in there?”
“Yep…sure enough…unless it’s got two heads…only question now is who’s gonna come out first!” A shrill wail pierced the air. “Well! It’s a girl!” Byron frowned a little but a hint of a smile still remained.
“And here comes the other right now! Stop the presses! It’s a boy!” Byron let out an audible cheer even as a second shrill cry pierced the air.
Mr. Warren mopped his forehead with the back of his hand; one would have thought he had just given birth to octuplets himself. “There are two? Twins?”
“Oh, get a hold of yourself, Pa, and come look! You’re the proud parents of two wonderful identical twins!”
Byron smiled as he looked at the newcomers. “Hey, that’s just what happened to Freddy’s mom – she had identical twins, which means they both look the same! Neat-O!”
A shadow passed over Dr. Merrill’s face. “Now comes the hard part, you know – what are the names going to be? You know, I have a grandfather in Buffalo and two aunts in Trenton if it looks like I’ll have to arbitrate…”
“No, Doctor, that won’t be necessary!” said Mrs. Warren in a strong voice. “We’ve already decided on alternative names for a boy or a girl, and I suppose we’ll just have to use both – right, Horatio?” Horatio, for his part, was out on the easy chair again.
Mrs. Leona Warren looked proudly at her two newest children as she held them both for the first time – quite an armful, if I do say so myself. “The girl will be Alice Vera Warren…and the boy will be Robert George Warren!”
“Fine names, fine names!” said a beaming Dr. Merrill. “Now let me get all of the data copied down on a piece of paper…too bad my nurse isn’t here…I forgot to look at my watch as I was delivering…guess I’ll have to estimate…”
Ah, yes, but it was a fine, joyous, splendid day at the Warren residence, June 19. Strong woman that she was, Mrs. Warren even offered to get up and heat something up for Dr. Merrill, but Mr. Warren wouldn’t have it. He stumbled to the kitchen and popped a heaping bowl of celebratory popcorn for everyone. And that was the way the Warren family grew from three in number to five.
Young Byron was not as put off as one might have feared by the addition of two new siblings. He was already quite accustomed to entertaining himself, and he actually felt quite proud of himself as he helped his mother care for both twins. After all, he was a big brother – and there is nothing trifling about that job description.
Be he, or be he not, destined to grow up into the most interesting man in the world, a young firstborn lad in most average American families is bound, sooner or later, to be subjected the most unpleasant of indignities. Call such indignity what you will – newcomer, usurper, pretender to the throne, competitor, or rival – it is bound to be welcomed (or not welcomed, as the case may be) in roughly the same fashion by all young firstborn lads. This fashion is bound, in more cases than not, to be quite a surprising nuisance in the eyes of the parents of young firstborn lads; but be that as it may, it remains true, as many of my fellow former young firstborn lads may tell you, to a man.
Byron Warren was seven years old when it happened. In fact, he had but lately turned that bright age of seven, for the month was June. Mr. Horatio Warren had, for roughly nine months previous to this point, maintained a strange but nonetheless stoic and consistent silence around his son, which no doubt perplexed the latter and not a little embarrassed the former. However, though I speak entirely upon my own initiative in this matter (and not from direct knowledge of the case), I believe the cause for this unease between father and son is quite explainable, though not quite understandable or excusable to most of us.
You see, the notable Santa Claus episode had greatly damaged Mr. Horatio Warren’s psyche as a father, for obvious reasons to those who read that notable chapter. After finding that Mrs. Leona Warren was with child, Mr. Warren’s injured ego forced him to take drastic, though probably entirely unnecessary, steps. He determined then and there that he would not tell his son Byron about this development until the moment of birth was at hand. The fear that drove this action was simple – if he told young Byron that he was going to have a younger sibling, he feared he might be forced to sit down with the former and discuss the facts of life much too soon for either of their good. And since Byron was now bound to take most of what his father said with a grain or two of salt, Mr. Warren found it prudent to keep his mouth entirely shut. And since Mrs. Warren pledged that if her husband wasn’t going to say anything about it until the last moment, neither was she, Byron was simply not going to know until that moment – for when Mrs. Leona Nora Warren, nee Crabapple, pledged something, it was as good as backed by the full faith and credit of the United States government, and then some.
Well, you can imagine, since we all know that Byron Warren was a thinker even at that tender age if he was nothing else, that the young firstborn lad was wondering why his mother’s tummy had suddenly assumed a strangely round and ever-growing shape. You can be sure that he gave voice to his inquisitive thoughts and asked both his parents what was the matter with Mom. At which Mrs. Warren just quietly assured him, “You’ll see”; and Mr. Warren would nervously pick up a book or the newspaper and tell his son not to bother him. It didn’t help when he saw his parents furnishing a spare room with all manner of baby toys and clothes and furniture, things that even Byron knew he was much too old for. He tried to question even this, but all he got was a curt reply that he should stay out of other people’s rooms.
But at last the day, June 19, came. Mr. Warren did not yet know it was the day, for he was sitting quite calmly in his easy chair; however, Mrs. Warren’s shriek quickly jolted him to attention. He ran to where his wife was, and by a series of hand gestures, facial expressions, and semi-intelligible phrases, he was notified that “it” was coming, and would not wait.
Horatio Warren first attempted to help his wife walk out to the car, but she was not even able to arise from the couch. Then he attempted to do what he was not then in the habit of doing (that is, carrying his wife) and found himself unable to do it; whereupon Horatio Warren picked up the telephone and called Dr. Merrill.
Now, Dr. Merrill was not wont to make house calls, but this would surely be an exception. You see, ever since he had helped the Warrens name their firstborn son, and ever since the Warrens had obligingly named Dr. Merrill as young Byron’s godfather, the good doctor was never known to deny a request from that family. Indeed, he was known to dine with them on occasion and even to golf with Mr. Warren. On the day in question, Mr. Warren’s telephone call could not have come at a more opportune time. Dr. Merrill had no sooner heard Horatio’s plea for help than he at once cut short his appointment with old Mrs. Jennings, the hypochondriac, by giving her a placebo. Then he was off to the Warren residence at speeds well over the accepted limit.
Meanwhile, young Byron was very much perplexed by his mother’s pained wailing and by his father’s confused attempts at allaying her distress. When he asked what was wrong, Mr. Warren realized that the time was at hand to tell his son. Mr. Warren, as you shall soon see, could not have more royally botched his opportunity.
“Well, son, you see…ah…you know how your mother’s tummy is all big and round?” he began cautiously.
“Yes,” replied the boy.
“Well, it’s about to not get so big and round!” stated Mr. Warren as emphatically as if that was all there was to the matter. Byron’s scrunched face assured him otherwise.
“You see, son, your mother is about to have a baby. That means you are about to be a big brother!”
Byron smiled broadly. “Oh, so you mean it’s like what Freddy says about what happened with his mom and how…”
Mr. Warren cut his son short. “Yes, yes! It means you will soon have a new little baby brother or sister to play with!”
“But how did…” Mr. Warren did not let his son finish. Mr. Warren, in his excited state, was too ready to jump to conclusions. He assumed, incorrectly, that his son wanted more information than was needed, and since he assumed this, he did not give his son a simple seven-year-old answer, as you or I would no doubt have. Instead, he gave his son a three-year-old answer and told a totally needless whopper, as follows.
“Um…you see, son…when a mommy and a daddy are lonely and want a new son or daughter – not that we’re lonely with you around, son, but perhaps they want more than one child – you see, they send for the stork!”
“The stork?” Byron’s face was even more scrunched than before.
“Yes. The stork is a big white bird with long legs and a long beak, and he delivers babies to mommies and daddies!” The whopper couldn’t have been bigger if he had added that the stork makes dill pickles.
Even Byron knew this, which is why he ignored his father’s answer. “But how is mommy’s stomach going to get smaller – and why is it so big now?”
“Well, son…” The words were hardly out of Mr. Warren’s mouth when there came a sharp rap at the door. Before Mr. Warren could move to get the door, the door opened of its own accord – or should I say, it was opened by an energetic newcomer with a black bag.
“It is I, the stork!” shouted Dr. Merrill good-naturedly, as if delivering babies were the most joyous, knee-slapping good time you could imagine. “Where’s the patient?”
“She’s on the couch in the living…” began Mr. Warren, but Dr. Merrill strode past him as if he already knew the answer to his question. He kneeled by the couch and quickly assumed firm command of the situation.
“All right, Pa, no slacking now – we’re going to have a home birth here! Boil up some water, man – you should have been doing this fifteen minutes ago! I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s here before you even get back! And I just know it’s going to be a ‘he’ – I can tell by the way she screams! Easy, now!”
As Dr. Merrill was busy barking orders to everyone including the house cat, Mr. Warren was nearly ready to swoon. In fact, that is just what he did after he had complied with several of the doctor’s requests.
“All right, Pa, we need a couple more rags, wash cloths, handkerchiefs, whatever you have handy…Mama’s sweating up a storm, and what good is a Pa if he can’t – Pa? Oh, blast it all, he’s out cold on the chair. Hey, B. W.,” – this was Dr. Merrill’s pet name for the boy – “could you get me another wash cloth or a towel or something? Hurry!”
Byron was off in a flash, and he ran more than a few other errands for the doctor during the whole process. In fact, the boy even mopped his mother’s brow and soothed her by giving her gentle hugs around the neck – something Mr. Warren would no doubt have been doing himself if he was not still laid out on his easy chair. Mrs. Warren, as has been duly noted before, was a strong woman, and seven years had not abated her original child-bearing strength; besides, having a strong man and a competent doctor beside you and being surrounded by the comfortable environment of home don’t hurt matters one iota.
“Pa, look alive – here they come!” shouted Dr. Merrill. Mr. Warren was not so far gone that the sudden sharp cry from the doctor did not cause him to open his eyes and to faintly stir.
“What? What did you say?”
“I said look alive, Pa! Here they come!”
“They? Who’s they?”
“I’m not talking about the IRS, man, or the police! I’m talking about your twins!”
Mr. Warren slumped back into his easy chair, ashen. “Twins!”
“Yes, twins, or my name isn’t Dr. Merrill! B. W., looks like you’re about to be outnumbered!” At this the boy smiled broadly again.
Mrs. Warren even spoke up now in between her groans. “Are you serious, doctor? There’s two in there?”
“Yep…sure enough…unless it’s got two heads…only question now is who’s gonna come out first!” A shrill wail pierced the air. “Well! It’s a girl!” Byron frowned a little but a hint of a smile still remained.
“And here comes the other right now! Stop the presses! It’s a boy!” Byron let out an audible cheer even as a second shrill cry pierced the air.
Mr. Warren mopped his forehead with the back of his hand; one would have thought he had just given birth to octuplets himself. “There are two? Twins?”
“Oh, get a hold of yourself, Pa, and come look! You’re the proud parents of two wonderful identical twins!”
Byron smiled as he looked at the newcomers. “Hey, that’s just what happened to Freddy’s mom – she had identical twins, which means they both look the same! Neat-O!”
A shadow passed over Dr. Merrill’s face. “Now comes the hard part, you know – what are the names going to be? You know, I have a grandfather in Buffalo and two aunts in Trenton if it looks like I’ll have to arbitrate…”
“No, Doctor, that won’t be necessary!” said Mrs. Warren in a strong voice. “We’ve already decided on alternative names for a boy or a girl, and I suppose we’ll just have to use both – right, Horatio?” Horatio, for his part, was out on the easy chair again.
Mrs. Leona Warren looked proudly at her two newest children as she held them both for the first time – quite an armful, if I do say so myself. “The girl will be Alice Vera Warren…and the boy will be Robert George Warren!”
“Fine names, fine names!” said a beaming Dr. Merrill. “Now let me get all of the data copied down on a piece of paper…too bad my nurse isn’t here…I forgot to look at my watch as I was delivering…guess I’ll have to estimate…”
Ah, yes, but it was a fine, joyous, splendid day at the Warren residence, June 19. Strong woman that she was, Mrs. Warren even offered to get up and heat something up for Dr. Merrill, but Mr. Warren wouldn’t have it. He stumbled to the kitchen and popped a heaping bowl of celebratory popcorn for everyone. And that was the way the Warren family grew from three in number to five.
Young Byron was not as put off as one might have feared by the addition of two new siblings. He was already quite accustomed to entertaining himself, and he actually felt quite proud of himself as he helped his mother care for both twins. After all, he was a big brother – and there is nothing trifling about that job description.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Simplicity of the Gospel
“For after that in the wisdom of God the world by wisdom knew not God, it pleased God by the foolishness of preaching to save them that believe” – 1 Corinthians 1:21
As the few years of our lives melt away into the endless eons of eternity, there is really only one simple truth that could be said to be essential for us to know. We don’t have to attend school for more than a decade to understand it, and we don’t have to trek into the wildest and most unexplored places on earth in order to find it. It is so simple that a little child may hear it and understand it as well as the most learned person with many years of living experience. It is summed up in 1 Corinthians 15:3-4 – “Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, and He was buried and rose again the third day according to the Scriptures”; and again in Romans 10:9-10 – “If you shall confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and shall believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you shall be saved; for with the heart man believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made to salvation.”
Knowledge of the world around us can be a wonderful thing, and sometimes we can take for granted the simple fact that we are able to read and write. Yet the main verse at the beginning of this piece tells us that the world has never yet come to know God through all of its wisdom. The scientific knowledge we have gleaned over the centuries has been unable to reconcile us to our Creator, and this is evidenced by the fact that the world’s scientific community generally rejects God’s very existence. All that the most beautiful mathematical formulas can do is help us appreciate God’s order, but they will never introduce us to the Designer of that order. History and philosophy are full of the tragic examples of man’s failure to make an ideal world for himself, and of his failure to discover ultimate truth. Man has poured many grand and beautiful thoughts into literature, but often all that those words express are gnawing uncertainty and even loss of hope.
According to 1 Corinthians 1:21, God in His sovereignty designed it so that there would be no way that people could come to know God through their own efforts and wisdom. Why? Verse 29 tells us – “That no flesh should boast in His presence.” In order that He alone would receive all the glory, God ordained His simple yet miraculous revelation of the Gospel of Christ to be the tool of salvation. Those who hear and heed its uncomplicated call to repentance toward God and faith in Jesus, who died for our sins, will be saved from their sin and belong to God forever.
Yet what is the world’s response to this? It scoffs at the Gospel as so much foolishness, believing that the answer to the human condition could not be so simply, easily, and plainly delivered to mankind as that. In fact, fallen humans would rather accept their search for truth as endless and even futile than accept the solution in the form of revelation from the hand of God Himself.
The Apostle Paul scanned the ranks of the redeemed and did not find many with such an attitude. In verses 27-28, he says, “But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and the base things of the world, and the things which are despised, has God chosen, yes, and things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are.” The Gospel is profound in its very simplicity, and it must be accepted just as simply, for Jesus Himself said, “Unless you are converted and become like little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”
Education and knowledge are very valuable things, and they should never be dismissed. Indeed, we must use them to our advantage if we are to be good stewards of the world that God has entrusted to us. However, let us not be discouraged if we do not have as much worldly education as another person; and, on the other hand, let us not boast as if advanced education equates with wisdom able to unlock all truth. The Lord has identified for us the knowledge that should be sought above all else and rested in once it is attained, and it is as simple as it is unsearchable in its scope. He tells us in Jeremiah 9:23-24 – “Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom; neither let the mighty man boast in his might; let not the rich man boast in his riches; but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows Me, that I am the Lord who exercises lovingkindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, says the Lord.”
As the few years of our lives melt away into the endless eons of eternity, there is really only one simple truth that could be said to be essential for us to know. We don’t have to attend school for more than a decade to understand it, and we don’t have to trek into the wildest and most unexplored places on earth in order to find it. It is so simple that a little child may hear it and understand it as well as the most learned person with many years of living experience. It is summed up in 1 Corinthians 15:3-4 – “Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, and He was buried and rose again the third day according to the Scriptures”; and again in Romans 10:9-10 – “If you shall confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and shall believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you shall be saved; for with the heart man believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made to salvation.”
Knowledge of the world around us can be a wonderful thing, and sometimes we can take for granted the simple fact that we are able to read and write. Yet the main verse at the beginning of this piece tells us that the world has never yet come to know God through all of its wisdom. The scientific knowledge we have gleaned over the centuries has been unable to reconcile us to our Creator, and this is evidenced by the fact that the world’s scientific community generally rejects God’s very existence. All that the most beautiful mathematical formulas can do is help us appreciate God’s order, but they will never introduce us to the Designer of that order. History and philosophy are full of the tragic examples of man’s failure to make an ideal world for himself, and of his failure to discover ultimate truth. Man has poured many grand and beautiful thoughts into literature, but often all that those words express are gnawing uncertainty and even loss of hope.
According to 1 Corinthians 1:21, God in His sovereignty designed it so that there would be no way that people could come to know God through their own efforts and wisdom. Why? Verse 29 tells us – “That no flesh should boast in His presence.” In order that He alone would receive all the glory, God ordained His simple yet miraculous revelation of the Gospel of Christ to be the tool of salvation. Those who hear and heed its uncomplicated call to repentance toward God and faith in Jesus, who died for our sins, will be saved from their sin and belong to God forever.
Yet what is the world’s response to this? It scoffs at the Gospel as so much foolishness, believing that the answer to the human condition could not be so simply, easily, and plainly delivered to mankind as that. In fact, fallen humans would rather accept their search for truth as endless and even futile than accept the solution in the form of revelation from the hand of God Himself.
The Apostle Paul scanned the ranks of the redeemed and did not find many with such an attitude. In verses 27-28, he says, “But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and the base things of the world, and the things which are despised, has God chosen, yes, and things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are.” The Gospel is profound in its very simplicity, and it must be accepted just as simply, for Jesus Himself said, “Unless you are converted and become like little children, you shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”
Education and knowledge are very valuable things, and they should never be dismissed. Indeed, we must use them to our advantage if we are to be good stewards of the world that God has entrusted to us. However, let us not be discouraged if we do not have as much worldly education as another person; and, on the other hand, let us not boast as if advanced education equates with wisdom able to unlock all truth. The Lord has identified for us the knowledge that should be sought above all else and rested in once it is attained, and it is as simple as it is unsearchable in its scope. He tells us in Jeremiah 9:23-24 – “Let not the wise man boast in his wisdom; neither let the mighty man boast in his might; let not the rich man boast in his riches; but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows Me, that I am the Lord who exercises lovingkindness, judgment, and righteousness in the earth; for in these things I delight, says the Lord.”
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Writer's Block IV; or, Lock and Load
I have been searching my brain all day for some kind of idea to write about, and I would have given up all hope of having come up with one if I had not found some unused ammunition. No, I am not talking about actual lead projectiles. The ammunition I have in mind is more figurative, but no less potent to solve my problem. You see, I discovered the happy fact that I have not yet written an official installment of “Writer’s Block” in the month of May! Having discovered this, I decided that, with less than two weeks to go in the month itself, ‘tis better to fire off that one unused round of ammunition than to leave it in the old bandolier. And lest anyone worry that that round will be needed but unavailable in the coming twelve last days of May, let me say that I believe my current writer’s block to be so bad that when it wears off (as I trust it soon will), it will give way to such a flurry of ideas that a near-fortnight shall not be able to hold them.
As long as we are on the subject of ammunition, let me hold forth briefly on a not-too-distantly-related subject – namely, firearms. I am not going to argue for or against gun control in this article, except to say that I am definitely a firm believer in gun control. That is, I believe strongly in having a firm, controlling grasp with both hands on my firearm at all times when I am using it.
I was not yet five when I first handled a gun. My father and I went out squirrel hunting, and he let me hold the .22 rifle. It turns out that’s just about all either of us did with that gun, although I seem to recall that he did allow me to fire it off once at a tree. I used that same firearm when Dad took me on my first target practice. I don’t know how well I did, but I remember I had a blast.
Those of you who are gun buffs and pride yourselves on having a veritable armory of your own (which no force foreign or domestic shall ever be able to take without an epic fight) will no doubt call me a sissy or a gun novice for having written so glowingly about my experience with such a piddling little thing as a .22 rifle. But let me say that I have shot all kinds of firearms.
I have shot a .22 pistol. Besides shooting other calibers of both rifles and pistols (both large and amazingly small), I have also shot an SKS and a shotgun. The SKS was a beauty to shoot, with its accuracy and comfortable feel, but the shotgun was a different story. It was the first and last time I ever shot one of those monsters, and I would not have done more lasting damage to the crook of my arm if I had put a full-blown howitzer up to it and blasted away. I would have thought that there was supposed to be more force coming out of the gun than going back the other way, but in that I was mistaken. Not only did the recoil blow me completely backwards, but it also left the most searing pain in my arm and shoulder. I almost believed I had been shot, and I know my arm was useless for some time after that.
Having said all this, I must admit I am far from an expert in guns. I have never shot at a living thing of any kind, much less hit one. I have gone to only one gun show, and I do not have the uncanny ability to know when the next show will be fourteen months in advance. I don’t have a gun rack in my room or any vehicle. I have not studied my clothes and my person in such detail as to know exactly which spot would be perfect to conceal a handgun. If anyone knocked at my door, I would not raise a .45 Magnum before inquiring “Who’s there?” I don’t dress like Rambo just for fun. You gun buffs and survivalists out there will no doubt say that I had better get on the ball, and I won’t disagree with you there. But suffice it to say that guns have never been a great interest and hobby of mine up to now, though I appreciate their value and I do know how to shoot them.
All this talk of guns reminds me – I haven’t been fishing in ages. I know you must be wondering how that reminded me of fishing. Guns reminded me of hunting, which I’ve never done since that squirrel hunting episode two decades ago, and that reminded me of fishing, which I’ve done quite often but not in a long time (my mind works like that when it is under the influence of writer’s block).
I am well-acquainted with salt-water fishing and all that goes with it – the stench of the bait shop, the mosquitoes biting you in the pre-dawn hours, pricking your finger with the hook as you try to attach the squirming shrimp onto it, casting your line out countless times during the day, and waiting tirelessly as countless fish treat themselves to a buffet line at your expense but never once come up for air at your reeling. That’s not to say that I haven’t caught some real keepers before. I once caught a hefty flounder, and the fight I had once with a fat redfish was nothing short of exhilarating.
I need to go fishing someday soon. But for that I need a fishing license. I could always go to a more uncivilized place and marry the two concepts of this article – guns and fishing – by lowering a shotgun into the water and seeing what I can catch that way. But I’d probably break my arm clean off at the shoulder if I did that. Another alternative would be to enter the water myself and wrestle the fish to the shore barehanded like they do in Arkansas (and I’m sure they shoot fish there, too). Whatever I end up doing, here’s to all the sportsmen and sportswomen out there, and to my inner sportsperson – and here’s hoping my writer’s block will soon go the way of the flintlock.
As long as we are on the subject of ammunition, let me hold forth briefly on a not-too-distantly-related subject – namely, firearms. I am not going to argue for or against gun control in this article, except to say that I am definitely a firm believer in gun control. That is, I believe strongly in having a firm, controlling grasp with both hands on my firearm at all times when I am using it.
I was not yet five when I first handled a gun. My father and I went out squirrel hunting, and he let me hold the .22 rifle. It turns out that’s just about all either of us did with that gun, although I seem to recall that he did allow me to fire it off once at a tree. I used that same firearm when Dad took me on my first target practice. I don’t know how well I did, but I remember I had a blast.
Those of you who are gun buffs and pride yourselves on having a veritable armory of your own (which no force foreign or domestic shall ever be able to take without an epic fight) will no doubt call me a sissy or a gun novice for having written so glowingly about my experience with such a piddling little thing as a .22 rifle. But let me say that I have shot all kinds of firearms.
I have shot a .22 pistol. Besides shooting other calibers of both rifles and pistols (both large and amazingly small), I have also shot an SKS and a shotgun. The SKS was a beauty to shoot, with its accuracy and comfortable feel, but the shotgun was a different story. It was the first and last time I ever shot one of those monsters, and I would not have done more lasting damage to the crook of my arm if I had put a full-blown howitzer up to it and blasted away. I would have thought that there was supposed to be more force coming out of the gun than going back the other way, but in that I was mistaken. Not only did the recoil blow me completely backwards, but it also left the most searing pain in my arm and shoulder. I almost believed I had been shot, and I know my arm was useless for some time after that.
Having said all this, I must admit I am far from an expert in guns. I have never shot at a living thing of any kind, much less hit one. I have gone to only one gun show, and I do not have the uncanny ability to know when the next show will be fourteen months in advance. I don’t have a gun rack in my room or any vehicle. I have not studied my clothes and my person in such detail as to know exactly which spot would be perfect to conceal a handgun. If anyone knocked at my door, I would not raise a .45 Magnum before inquiring “Who’s there?” I don’t dress like Rambo just for fun. You gun buffs and survivalists out there will no doubt say that I had better get on the ball, and I won’t disagree with you there. But suffice it to say that guns have never been a great interest and hobby of mine up to now, though I appreciate their value and I do know how to shoot them.
All this talk of guns reminds me – I haven’t been fishing in ages. I know you must be wondering how that reminded me of fishing. Guns reminded me of hunting, which I’ve never done since that squirrel hunting episode two decades ago, and that reminded me of fishing, which I’ve done quite often but not in a long time (my mind works like that when it is under the influence of writer’s block).
I am well-acquainted with salt-water fishing and all that goes with it – the stench of the bait shop, the mosquitoes biting you in the pre-dawn hours, pricking your finger with the hook as you try to attach the squirming shrimp onto it, casting your line out countless times during the day, and waiting tirelessly as countless fish treat themselves to a buffet line at your expense but never once come up for air at your reeling. That’s not to say that I haven’t caught some real keepers before. I once caught a hefty flounder, and the fight I had once with a fat redfish was nothing short of exhilarating.
I need to go fishing someday soon. But for that I need a fishing license. I could always go to a more uncivilized place and marry the two concepts of this article – guns and fishing – by lowering a shotgun into the water and seeing what I can catch that way. But I’d probably break my arm clean off at the shoulder if I did that. Another alternative would be to enter the water myself and wrestle the fish to the shore barehanded like they do in Arkansas (and I’m sure they shoot fish there, too). Whatever I end up doing, here’s to all the sportsmen and sportswomen out there, and to my inner sportsperson – and here’s hoping my writer’s block will soon go the way of the flintlock.
Monday, May 18, 2009
In Memory of My Grandfather
Today, May 18, it has been twenty years since my Grandpa Wilkinson passed away in 1989. I was five years old at the time, and I still vaguely remember my dad getting me out of bed in the morning when it was still dark to tell me about it. I had known from my parents’ conversations that Grandpa was sick (he had lung cancer), and news of his death did not affect me that much then. I was only five, and I barely knew my grandfather; yet from my father’s sad demeanor I knew something very serious had happened, and I still remember that moment.
I was probably with my grandfather in person only twice. There are pictures of him holding me at the beach when he visited when I was just a toddler. I vaguely remember him reading books to me on the couch and laughing and having a lot of fun. My dad told me once (and it’s hard to know if I remember this directly or not) that he made up a game in which we would see who could collapse and hit the couch faster.
What I know of my grandfather, Reginald Norbert Wilkinson, I know from what my father has told me about him. He was born on June 6, 1921, in Hollywood, Maryland, on a farm in the very same county the Wilkinson family had lived in since they arrived in America from England in the 1600s. He had only one brother but nine sisters. I believe he attended a military high school in Washington, D.C.
My grandfather entered World War II as a fighter pilot and fought in the Pacific theater. I know that he shot down one Japanese plane, but of his other travels or exploits neither I nor my father know much. It was on his 23rd birthday that his comrades far away in Europe stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day in 1944.
He married my grandmother (who is still living) in 1944 (I believe he actually took her up in an airplane when they were courting or recently married), and they had one child who died in infancy before having three surviving children – my Aunt Anne, my Uncle John, and my father. My grandmother is from Washington, D.C., and the family lived in nearby Arlington. My grandfather worked in construction, and he helped on the construction of RFK Stadium in the late 1960s.
Grandpa was an alcoholic, and he and my grandmother separated in 1971. But for all his flaws, my father recalls his father as a very kind and moral man. He loved his children and had a good sense of humor. He was old-fashioned; in fact, my grandmother once said that he was “born a century too late”. I may have inherited my love of classical music from him, because my dad said that Grandpa liked to listen to it occasionally. One thing he hated was foul language, and he had no problem asking (perhaps not so politely) anyone using it to stop.
Grandpa Wilkinson would have been 88 this year, and I would love for him to be still alive today. I would have written him letters (like I have for many years with my other grandfather), asked him about growing up and about the war, along with many other things I was never able to do with him. I would also have shared the gospel with him as the Lord gave me opportunity; he died before any of our family came to Christ, and I do not know where he stood with the Lord. However, I admire and love my late grandfather, and today, two full decades after he left this earth too soon at the age of 67, I dedicate this short and simple article to him in his memory.
I was probably with my grandfather in person only twice. There are pictures of him holding me at the beach when he visited when I was just a toddler. I vaguely remember him reading books to me on the couch and laughing and having a lot of fun. My dad told me once (and it’s hard to know if I remember this directly or not) that he made up a game in which we would see who could collapse and hit the couch faster.
What I know of my grandfather, Reginald Norbert Wilkinson, I know from what my father has told me about him. He was born on June 6, 1921, in Hollywood, Maryland, on a farm in the very same county the Wilkinson family had lived in since they arrived in America from England in the 1600s. He had only one brother but nine sisters. I believe he attended a military high school in Washington, D.C.
My grandfather entered World War II as a fighter pilot and fought in the Pacific theater. I know that he shot down one Japanese plane, but of his other travels or exploits neither I nor my father know much. It was on his 23rd birthday that his comrades far away in Europe stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day in 1944.
He married my grandmother (who is still living) in 1944 (I believe he actually took her up in an airplane when they were courting or recently married), and they had one child who died in infancy before having three surviving children – my Aunt Anne, my Uncle John, and my father. My grandmother is from Washington, D.C., and the family lived in nearby Arlington. My grandfather worked in construction, and he helped on the construction of RFK Stadium in the late 1960s.
Grandpa was an alcoholic, and he and my grandmother separated in 1971. But for all his flaws, my father recalls his father as a very kind and moral man. He loved his children and had a good sense of humor. He was old-fashioned; in fact, my grandmother once said that he was “born a century too late”. I may have inherited my love of classical music from him, because my dad said that Grandpa liked to listen to it occasionally. One thing he hated was foul language, and he had no problem asking (perhaps not so politely) anyone using it to stop.
Grandpa Wilkinson would have been 88 this year, and I would love for him to be still alive today. I would have written him letters (like I have for many years with my other grandfather), asked him about growing up and about the war, along with many other things I was never able to do with him. I would also have shared the gospel with him as the Lord gave me opportunity; he died before any of our family came to Christ, and I do not know where he stood with the Lord. However, I admire and love my late grandfather, and today, two full decades after he left this earth too soon at the age of 67, I dedicate this short and simple article to him in his memory.
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