In Jesus' Name We Pray

When the moderator called on him to ask the invocation this morning, even before he prayed I had a pretty good idea how he would start and I knew for sure how he would end.

No doubt, we are all  familiar with "The Lord's Prayer" and if you're like me you have prayed it hundreds of times.  Did you know that "Our Father who art in Heaven, etc."as recorded in Matthew chapter six  is not really the Lord's Prayer? It's the "Model Prayer."  "The Lord's Prayer" is recorded in John chapter seventeen when Jesus prayed for His disciples and for all of us just before He was arrested."

When someone prays a Christian prayer in a public setting, including government settings which may include people of various faiths, have you heard them say that they were "exercising their First Amendment rights?" The truth is they are violating the First Amendment. The Establishment Clause is an important part of the First Amendment to the Constitution. The Establishment Clause not only specifically states that the US government cannot establish an official state religion, but it goes on to say that the government can't show preference of any one religion over another. The document is very clear about that.  Or another Christian may say, "The United States of America was founded on Christian principles. It is my right  to pray a Christian prayer no matter who it offends."  If you read early American history you will learn that many of the founders were Christians, but the country was not founded on Christianity. The Constitution states the antithesis of that.  As important as the Bible is to millions of Americans and  to many founding fathers, this country was not founded on the Bible as some sort of official document, You can't hold up the Constitution in your left hand, the Holy Bible in your right and claim them both to be American documents. The Constitution is American, the Bible is not.  The Bible is Judeo-Christian.The United States of America was founded by people fleeing state religions and who wanted no part of a state religion, including the Christian religion.

This morning when the moderator asked my friend to pray, I knew that he would begin his prayer with something like "Dear God..."  or "Our Heavenly Father..." or just "Our Father..." and  he did. But I knew for certain that he would end with "in Jesus' name we pray. Amen."  And he did. Here in the buckle of the Bible Belt, no matter if at church, a civic club or the county commission meeting, that's how nearly everyone ends their  prayers.

Many millions of Christians believe  that the Bible contains the literal words of God. Some even say that it is "God breathed", that God told the writers every word to write. Therefore, according to this doctrine, the words of the Bible are perfect in every way. Polls suggest that about 40% of Americans believe that the Bible is the literal Word of God. Whereas, it's easy enough to hold this belief,  it is impossible to practice a literal Bible.     A. J. Jacobs in his The Year of Living Biblically  recounts his year of trying to live the Old Testament literally. The result  is a rather humorous, but eye-opening account of his attempts, Look no further than the Model Prayer to illustrate the point. Jesus, in introducing His Model Prayer,  said, "When you pray. pray like this." And He prayed the prayer that we all know. He did not suggest that we invoke His name at the end.  So if we take these verses literally,  then it seems that there is no place for a prayer that ends with "In Jesus' name we pray."  The point I'm trying to make is to end your prayer with "in Jesus name we pray" if that's meaningful for you, but that's not the way Jesus Himself said to pray when He actually said, "Pray like this." If we're doing what the Bible says literally, shouldn't we pay particular attention to the very words of Jesus? Or can at least 60% of us agree that there's a little wiggle room?

I learned the hard way to write my prayers.  A then moderate Baptist church where I attended developed a relationship with a local synagogue.  When the rabbi came to speak, my best friend who invited him to our church asked me to pray the opening prayer. He asked that it not be an expressly Christian prayer.  I told him that I understood and that I  would be glad to. I had given the prayer very little thought as I had been praying publicly my whole life. As I brought my beautiful prayer to a close, I realized in a panic that I didn't know how to end it.  I actually created a dramatic pause that called everyone's attention to my final words  "In Jesus' name we pray. Amen."  I opened my eyes to a death stare from my friend. He trusted me and I failed.

So do I have a problem with closing a prayer in Jesus' name?  No, not at all.  I have a problem with it in a public setting where people of many faiths or no faith are attending. Why would a Jew or a Hindu at a city council meeting want to hear "In Jesus name we pray"?  They pray quite often, but never in the name of Jesus. Even if it's not unconstitutional, it's disrespectful of other American citizen's beliefs to suggest "we" all pray this way.

So how do I suggest that someone should end their prayer in a non-Christian setting?  How about "We ask these things in Your name. Amen" and leave it at that. Now you've done your civic and religious duty, invoked the name of no particular God, offended no one and remained true to the Constitution of the United States. And most important you haven't violated your own beliefs. With these words "Your" becomes a placeholder for a Deity that anyone in the room can embrace.

In spite of the fact that I prayed that Christian prayer at our church that night, the rabbi invited me to sing at his synagogue.  He taught me "Hine ma tov" 'How good and pleasant it is for the brethren to dwell together in unity."  The rabbi and his congregation were touched by this Southern Baptist singing in Hebrew in their service of worship.  My friend who I had failed said, "Helms, that is the best I've ever heard you sing. You did us proud."  All's well that ends well.

Happy As a Clam

"You may not have everything you want, but you do get what you need."  the I Ching, Hexagram 48

What do amoebas need? They only need to eat. What do they eat? Amoebas eat algae, bacteria and protozoa.  What do protozoa need?  They only need to stay away from amoebas.

I can't really think of anything I need other than the daily things that sustain life and solutions to the usual "first world problems."  Food--I eat two to three times a day with snacks in between. How many bananas can you eat before you turn into a monkey? (devolution). Clothing--I don't like to shop for clothes and am quite happy with my current wardrobe. Shelter--I have a roof over my head that keeps me warm and dry .I'm relatively healthy. I saw one of my doctors this morning and he said "All things considered,  you are doing remarkable well". I'm relatively happy (how would I know how happy the next person is?). I'm relatively safe.  I am in my fortieth year of marriage with my lifetime soulmate (there was a life before her, I just don't remember that much about it). I have a son and daughter-in-law who I dearly love. They are healthy and happy too. I have a granddaughter who continually lights up my world and provides me with an endless stream of delights. She lives much too far away, but I have a good car, good roads and there's an airport nearby. I am surrounded by family and friends who love and support me. I have a job I enjoy. I don't really need anything.

But there are some things I want. If nothing else, my birthday, anniversary and Christmas come around quite often and people want to buy me things.

I have a good camera and several lenses I enjoy using, but there is some more camera equipment I would like to have. There's actually no end to camera equipment. So I can be happy with what I have (If I say that three times really fast I can believe it).

I have a Roland synthesizer that provides me with hours and hours of enjoyment, but I have my eye on another  synthesizer to compliment this one. If I never get it, I'm quite happy with my Roland.

There's a sports car I've been eyeing for several years.  It really gets my motors running, so to speak. I look at it every time I get my very reasonable and totally practical family sedan serviced.  But I'll never buy it. The insurance alone would be more than any car payment I've ever had.  But that SUV I've been looking at would be really nice to have.

There are books I want to buy. Truth is. I don't know what they are as I have several I have not read yet. But when I get those read I'll want another one. So is reading a need or a want? It's hard for me to imagine that I need words any less than the amoeba needs protozoa. But it's a want and not a need.

Can you imagine how low on the food chain you are if you get eaten by a one-celled organism?  Well you could be algae. Protozoa eat it.  What does algae eat? Not very much.

So is there anything I really want? Yes there is.  I want more emotional intelligence. I feel that I have at least at Master of Emotional Intelligence.  But I want a PhD of Emotional Intelligence.  I want to act and react in ways that far exceed my current ability.  I want to walk the world--head up, hope in my heart, expecting nothing but the best in each and every situation.I want to expect only good outcomes. Walking, if not with wild abandon, at least with confidence and great expectations.  I want to wait until I actually encounter a dragon to try to slay the dragon.

Is there anything else I want?  I want to be a better friend. I feel that I am a good friend to a few, but I could be a better friend. I want my friends to know that I have their back, that I am there for them in every way  possible.  And I want more friends. Not so much that I have more friends, but that more people have a friend in me.

I want to see more of America.  They tell me that there's an entire world to explore, but I'm really mostly interested in exploring more of my own country.  I want to see more of Arizona, New Mexico and Utah.  I want to see more of Washington, Oregon and California. I want to see New England in the fall. I want to eat lobster in Maine. I want to visit the Guggenheim Museum in New York City and eat some more cheesecake while I'm there. I want to see Yellowstone and Niagara Falls.  I want to see Alaska. I want to see some of Canada. But besides home, if I never see any of it, I can be quite happy.

During a time of profound and prolonged unhappiness, I wanted to die and come back as an amoeba. No joke. Can you imagine how simple that life would be? I would just float around in a pond all day. When  protozoa come near me, my pseudopod surrounds it and absorbs it.  That's it. That's all I ever have to do. Food, clothing, shelter all in one motion.

Although it's perfectly fine that we  want more than amoeba need, we could all do with so much less. Millions in the world are dying for just food, clothing and shelter. But isn't it reasonable to assume that if these people's basic needs were met, they would want more?

If you read about human nature and our unquenchable desire for having what we don't have, you read about the brain's insatiable desire for pleasure.  Why do people risk their marriages, their families, their reputations, their friends, their jobs, their freedom for sex and drugs?  Because it feels so damned good! We will do about anything to feel more pleasure. Have you ever wondered  if an amoeba finds pleasure in eating? Probably not. An amoeba has no brain so it is incapable of feeling pleasure. So who's better off the amoeba who wants nothing or the person who always wants what he can't have? Are you better off to want nothing or to never be satisfied with anything?

"You may not have everything you want, but you get what you need,"  You don't feel like you have everything you need? Just stay in one place long enough and it will float by.

A Slice of Life--In a Different Light

"and at once I knew I wasn't magnificent
strayed above the highway aisle
jagged vacance, thick with ice
and I could see for miles, miles, miles"  Holocene by Bon Iver

When I write and publish here, any given post is primarily about one thing. I may cover a lot of territory, but it's mainly about that thing.  In this case, I don't know yet what I'm writing about. There are several things I want to say on several different subjects.  Is it primarily about friendship, or Chattanooga history, writing, the music I'm listening to, or about science and critical thinking?  I'm not sure. It may end up being about something else altogether. Ah!  "altogether" is probably what it will be about. I'm going to start writing and you start reading. Maybe by the end of it we'll figure it out.

Most words have little or no meaning by themselves.  They only have meaning in context with other words.  A paragraph of words can have meaning, but its ultimate meaning lies in its relationship to previous paragraphs. There's another  aspect to words and meaning that is even more important than that.  What I mean by what I write and what the words mean to you are entirely different things. I can tell you about my father, for example, but you may not be very interested in my father,  you're mostly thinking about your own father, or his father, or your Heavenly Father or  Father Abraham or Father Christmas or Father Time. I have no control over any of that. I also have no responsibility in any of that. I throw the rock in the pond.. The ripples go where they will.

At this point, these words have no particular destination, Have you ever been for a "Sunday drive?"  I never have. I just wondered if you had.

My brain multi-tasks. I never want to be rude, but if you and I are having a conversation, I'm simultaneously listening to you but thinking about something else.  I really don't have any choice about this. I'm genuinely interested in what you're saying, But what you just said reminds me of something else (I've seen, heard, thought about,experienced that day of forty years ago). So my thoughts trail off a bit. I've learned to hide this "rudeness" fairly well, but quite often you notice. The power plant of my brain  is just too handy for me not to use it. It's sitting right here on my neck even now. I can't detach it. I can't put it to the side while we talk. It is a constant challenge for me to stay engaged in any conversation. Unfortunately, quite often when you stop talking to give me a chance to respond, I really don't know what you're talking about. It can be awkward for both of us. Now if we're talking about the books of Joseph Campbell, Black Elk, having a discussion about gravitational waves, quantum theory, Leonard Bernstein's Mass, Maurice Durufle's Requiem, or the movies Ordinary People or Empire of the Sun, then I'm a little more engaged. But I can count on one hand the people in my circle of friends who want to talk about any of that. Actually, I can count them on one finger. But he moved away several years ago.

You say, "Well, why don't you quit thinking every now and then, and just listen to people?" That would be like me saying, "I want to keep my internet connection and my cable TV, but I don't need electricity." I can't stop thinking any more than you can.  For  you to be reading this, billions and billions of neurons are active as billions of powerful neurotransmitters are exploding in the synapses of billions upon billions of nerve cells. Your gray matter is combining information from when your mother taught you the alphabet when you were three years old, something you heard this afternoon and something you learned ten minutes ago. The only thing that keeps all this from blowing out into the air is your skull.

I am genuinely interested in your children and grandchildren. I have a son and a granddaughter who I love very much, too.  But after a little while I've  said and heard about all I need to say and hear. You can keep talking about the shoes you found on sale at Stride Rite or how long she played on the swing at the park because the little boy scared her on the slide and I'll keep listening, but it becomes progressively difficult for me to stay engaged. "Read any Joseph Campbell lately?"

This weekend this listening phenomenon I deal with was on full display. My wife and I  had just enjoyed dinner with good friends at a restaurant on Frazier Avenue in Chattanooga.  After dinner we walked to The Stone Cup Cafe to enjoy coffee and to continue our conversation.  We sat down in some lounge chairs near a window looking out over the Chattanooga landscape.  Actually, I was the only one sitting with a view through the window. As it turned out that  was not a good idea for me if the idea was good conversation. While enjoying friendship, coffee,  meaningful conversation and incredibly good music, I was looking at the Market Street Bridge through the window.  The bridge, not too far away, was lit up like a Christmas tree so that pedestrians could stroll across.  Caffeine, conversation, good music and an incredible view--I was officially 'under the influence."

When my wife and I moved  to Rossville, Georgia from Louisville, Kentucky in the spring of 1979, we had no idea of the city's proximity to Chattanooga, Tennessee.  I can get in my car and drive from our house in Ringgold, Georgia and, depending on traffic, be downtown within ten minutes.  It takes me about the same amount of time to drive to downtown Ringgold. While out of town when asked where I'm from I usually say, "I live in Ringgold, Georgia just a few miles from Chattanooga." but sometimes I just say "Chattanooga" to save a few words.

In the spring of 1979 if we drove to downtown Chattanooga from Rossville after five o'clock p.m., there was nothing there but empty buildings and empty streets.  There was one hotel on the far end of town from the river and one restaurant nearby.  It was a ghost town. 60 Minutes, a few years earlier, had called Chattanooga, Tennessee "one of the dirtiest cities in America."

There are various accounts about what actually happened to change all that.  "Urban legend" has it that Chattanooga hired a consultant from Boston and paid him several hundred thousand dollars to advise the city planners  how to revitalize the city. I don't know anybody to confirm this, but it's a plausible story since The New England Aquarium in Boston has been open since 1969 and  the Tennessee Aquarium was the very first downtown attraction to open..  But legend has it that the visiting consultant  road around and walked around downtown Chattanooga for a day or so. At some point the city fathers asked, "So what you you think?" He looked at them and said, "You have a river running through your city."

In 1992 Chattanooga opened The Tennessee Aquarium adjacent to the Tennessee River. This aquarium receives nearly 2 million visitors a year.  It is estimated that nearly 30 million people have visited the aquarium since it opened in 1992.  My wife and I have had a season pass for several years.  I think we have visited with our granddaughter more than a million times ourselves.

A few nights ago in the Stone Cup Cafe, while looking at the bridge through the window and trying to remain engaged with my wife and our good friends, I was thinking about that history.  The Walnut Street bridge opened in 1890 to connect downtown Chattanooga to the North  Shore.  Most of the parts were manufactured in nearby Dalton, Georgia and  were shipped to Chattanooga by rail. The bridge was closed to motor vehicles in 1978 and sat in disrepair for nearly a decade. Chattanooga made plans to tear it down, but the city didn't have the money to do so. One year after the city opened its aquarium, after extensive repairs and renovations, it was reopened as a pedestrian bridge.  Since then several million people have strolled from the downtown to North Shore. Frazier Avenue and North Shore are now vital parts of the Chattanooga experience.  Frazier includes quaint shops and eateries of various types. If you want to buy one of the condominiums and town homes, you'll need more than your American Express. They think very highly of them.

Beneath the Market Street Bridge beside the river is Coolidge Park.  This beautiful green area has a fountain where children play in the summer and a carousel.  The park is a photography venue for thousands of proms and weddings each year. It is even graced by the Chattanooga Symphony from time to time.

Then things started falling like dominoes. There came The River Walk.  This pedestrian thoroughfare offers thirteen miles of paved and  fenced walkway along the Tennessee River.  It will be twenty three miles long when complete. It invites you to walk,  jog and ride your bicycle. The annual Riverbend Festival on Ross's Landing hosts the country's top artists and hundreds of thousands of concert goers. Just buy a pin and you can come every night for two  weeks. Some patrons get their money's worth with one concert. Others attend them all.

"David?  David? How do you feel about that?"  "I think it's great!". "No, I asked you how you would feel about getting me another cup of coffee." "Yeah, that's what I was saying. That will be just great."

In the September 2015 issue of Outside Magazine, the writers voted Chattanooga as the best place to visit and to live in America for outdoor adventures.  Hiking, kayaking, biking, boating, paddle boarding,  hang gliding, rock climbing, spelunking, rappelling and so much more is there within a few miles of downtown.  Isn't it an irony that all of that has been here all along but it took the aquarium to bring it to life? I was in the process of Googling the magazine to get the date, when I thought, "Oh, the magazine is right on this shelf above my head."  We have good bookstores, too.

The aquarium Chattanooga  opened in 1992 was its fresh water aquarium called River Journey. Three years later the city opened beside it its salt water aquarium called Ocean Journey.  Just beside that aquarium is an attraction that if you don't know about it, you'll walk right past it.  Millions of people have walked by it while walking from the aquarium to the Market Street Bridge.  This attraction is a special place that is a memorial to the official starting place of The Trail of Tears.  Officially it's called The Passage. Unofficially and affectionately it's called "the water steps."  Water cascades down these steps to a wading pool. Children and adults play on the steps and in  the pool all through the summer months.

I'm listening now  to the music I was introduced to at the Stone Cup. Since I was already "under the influence", when this song played, I guess you could say that I was "drunk". I waited too late to get Soundhound to identify it.  After a few more songs I walked to the counter and asked the barista about the music. She told me that it was her own iPod playlist. Because of that she was able to quickly identify the song as Holocene by Bon Iver. As I often do, when I got home I simultaneously listened to it on Spotify and followed the lyrics while I listened.  The lyrics are total nonsense. To me anyway. But they obviously meant something to the musicians because they made something remarkable out of it. After listening to this album several times. Beth/Rest has become my favorite song, but Holocene is a close second.

I live in Ringgold, Georgia, but I spend a lot of time in Chattanooga, Tennessee. If I laid my full-time and part-time jobs there end to end I would have worked in Chattanooga nearly thirty years. That's why I hesitate when asked where I'm from.

If you walk across the  Walnut Street Bridge to downtown from North Shore at about any time of day or night, you can check into one of many hotels and  enjoy downtown restaurants, bars and lounges, coffee shops, pizzerias, ice cream shops, movie theaters and even climbing walls.  The millennials who now make up a significant percentage of Chattanooga's populations and who inhabit so many of the downtown condos and apartments  do not have any perspective on all of this. These youngsters take full advantage of all the city has to offer, much more than I do,  but I wouldn't think that they appreciate it like I do. They might challenge me to go rock climbing or hang gliding with them before I say who appreciates Chattanooga the most.

The 2015 revenue from tourism in Chattanooga, Tennessee  was estimated to be a little over 1 billion dollars. Spelled out in numbers it looks like $1,000,000,000.00. "There's a river running through your city."

A few years ago I hired a media consultant to take a look at this blog. He said, "I like it but it needs a theme.  You're all over the place.  It's a nice 'slice of life' but it needs a theme. When people go to a blog they are expecting it to be about the same thing."  I guess I wasted his time  and my money because I didn't change anything. If I normally write "a slice of life" I guess here I'm offering two or three slices. Several years before that meeting when my gen X son helped me set it all up, he asked, "What are you going to call your blog? It needs a name."  I thought for a second and said, "I want to call it 'In a Different Light' ". He said, "I like that"  and he typed it in.

You take advantage of light, but do you ever really think about light?  You know that light travels at about 186,000 miles per second, but there are other significant properties of light. For decades some scientists argued that light was  a wave while other equally smart people argued that it was a particle. Albert Einstein  and other noted physicists settled the argument that it's both. The "wave-particle" duality, it's called. . So light is "a different light" by its very nature.

Strange thing happened just after writing that.  Our electricity went off.  And it stayed off over eight hours. We had no lights, no cable television, no internet, nothing. You forget how much you depend on household current until you don't have any.

Try to do anything you do without thinking.  It can't be done.  Even when you say, "I did it without thinking" , it's not true.  You were just thinking about something else.

So what is this article about?  It's about time for me to go to bed. It's after midnight and I've got a full day planned tomorrow. I have  a good idea where my day will start, but I have no idea where it will end up. Who knows, I  may go downtown Chattanooga for a cup of coffee. I can be there in about the same amount of time it takes to brew a pot at home.  And maybe I'll meet a friend and we can enjoy a casual conversation about Black Elk or the properties of light.   I'd like that. But I need to sit with my back to the window.

The One That Got Away

I heard The Living Years by Mike and the Mechanics this afternoon.

Mike and the  Mechanics is a British band who were together from 1985-1995 with a revival in  2010 till now. They released The Living Years in December of 1988. Both the musician  who wrote the lyrics and the one who wrote the music had recently lost their  father. The singer lost his father when  he was eleven years old. The song stayed on the US Adult Contemporary Chart of four weeks. It also rose to number one in Canada and Australia as well.  It was number two in the U.K. Apparently, it struck a nerve with a lot of  people.

"Every generation blames the one before
And all of their frustrations come beating on your door.
 I know that I'm a prisoner to all my Father held so dear.
I know that I'm a hostage to all his hopes and fears.
I just wish I could have told him in the living years.

Crumpled bits of paper filled with imperfect thought.
Stilted conversations I'm afraid that's all we've got.
You say you just don't see it. He says it's perfect sense.
You just can't get agreement in this present tense.
We all talk a different language talking in defense.

Say it loud, say it clear,
you can listen as well as you hear.
It's too late when we die
to admit we don't see eye to eye.

So we open up a quarrel between the present and the past.
We only sacrifice the future it's the bitterness that lasts.
So don't yield to the fortunes you sometimes see as fate.
It may have a new perspective on a different date.
And if you don't give up, and don't give in you may just be ok.

Say it loud, say it clear,
you can listen as well as you hear.
 It's too late when you die
 to admit we don't see eye to eye.

I wasn't there that morning when my Father passed away.
 I didn't get to tell him all the things I had to say.
I think I caught his spirit later that same year.
I'm sure I heard his echo in my baby's new born tears.
I just wish I could have told him in the living years.

Say it loud, say it clear,
you can listen as well as you hear.
It's too late when we die
 to admit we don't see eye to eye."       The Living Years, Mike and the Mechanics, 1988.

My father, Jack L. Helms, Sr. died of lung cancer about the time Mike and the Mechanics were breaking up in 1995. I didn't cry at his funeral. But a few days later when I was back home The Living Years played on the radio in my car.  I pulled to the side of the road and wept. You can't outrun grief.

When I was six years old my great aunt, aunt and my mother took my brother and me from Enterprise, Alabama to Chattanooga, Tennessee. We saw all the main attractions on Lookout Mountain--Rock City, Ruby Falls and the Incline Railway. We also saw the Confederama at the foot of the mountain. At Rock City they said I saw seven states from Lover's Leap, but it looked like a bunch of buildings and trees to me. I couldn't make out a single state.  But I at least saw Tennessee, a state I had never seen before. Lookout Mountain by itself was an attraction I never forgot. I've lived here for the last thirty eight years. Now if I want to see Lookout Mountain I just walk out my front door. My very great aunt always let us buy souvenirs in the gift shops of the attractions. At the Confederama  I bought a metal replica of a Civil War cannon. I kept that cannon on my bed until I dropped it on the floor and broke it when I was a teenager. At Rock  City I bought a coonskin cap. When I came home from the trip sporting my coonskin cap, my father started calling me "Crockett." His last words to me at 102  Glenn Street, Enterprise, Alabama were "Crockett, you're a good nurse."

There are many aspects of The Living Years that apply to my father and me. Thankfully, there are other parts of the song that do not apply. We had not resolved all of our differences before he died, but we had resolved most of them. About ten years before he died, I was talking to a counselor about my anger and bitterness toward my father. I said to him, "The only way to talk to him is on his own terms. And all he does is fish and golf."  And my counselor said, "Then I suggest you do some fishing and golfing." And so we did.  It was like he had been waiting for me for a very long time. I took every opportunity to travel from here to Enterprise to fish and golf with my father. My brother joined us for many of those adventures and we made some marvelous memories  together. I think that's one reason "The Living Years" struck me so deeply that afternoon, not because we left everything unsaid, but that we had said most of what needed to be said.

"I wasn't there that morning when my father passed away" applies to me. When we drove to Enterprise to see him he was not in critical condition so we had not taken any dress clothes with us.  When it became apparent that he was about to die, we drove back home, a five hour drive, got our clothes and drove back down. By then he was gone.  Did we make the right decision? We had already said "goodbye" and he died surrounded by his family. He did not die alone.

B.A. Robertson had many unresolved issues with his father when his father died.  He wrote the lyrics to The Living Years from his own pain and grief. . In 1996 Burt Bacharach said, "The Living Years is one of the finest lyrics of the last ten years."

I grew up somewhat afraid of my father. The only physical abuse I suffered was in that he didn't "spare the rod" or "spoil the child". But I got him and that wrathful god of my childhood all mixed up.  By the time I was in my thirties, I figured I was safe from both of them.   When I finally mustered the courage to take beer on the boat, he just looked at it and laughed. And by then the hypocrisy of his cigarettes versus other human vices wasn't wasted on either one of us.

It was my mother who had called me to tell me the doctors had found  a spot on Dad's lung and that it was malignant. In some ways, it was a gift of love that we all had a year and a half together knowing that he was going to die. I asked him if he was going to stop smoking and he said, "I don't see the point." But the best thing is that he didn't stop fishing and golfing either. At least not for quite a while.

"I'm sure I've heard an echo in my baby's newborn tears." We are involved with a family who have two children of their own and are foster parents for two more, a teenager and a one year old.  We have been providing respite care for the one year old since he was a few days old. We love this little boy more than words can say. Several people have told me that he looks like me.  Do I really think my father has come back in the person of this incredible little boy with whom I share no DNA?  No, but stranger things have happened. Did you know that gravitational waves from deep space can sing?.Not only that but they prefer middle C.

"It's too late when you die."  I owe a lifelong debt of gratitude to that counselor who  admonished me to go fishing and golfing with my dad. We not only had the time of our lives, but we ate a lot of fish. But the fishing was never really been about the fish, was it. One afternoon on West Bay, Florida I asked my dad if he ever got tired of fishing.  He reeled in his line, baited it with a shrimp, cast it back in the bay, propped his feet up, shook a Salem out of the pack, lit it and took a long draw, slowly exhaled the smoke, Looked all around at the sky and the bay. Looked over at me and asked, "What's there to get tired of?"

Could I regret that it took so long for us to look past our differences and learn to show our love for each other?  Of course I could.  But as Dad said, "I don't see the point." Instead I choose to be deeply grateful for the time that we had. It was enough.

My son and I don't go fishing, but we do golf from time to time.   A while back on an incredibly beautiful San Diego morning we went golfing together.  Although it was a sunny day in June, it was cool enough for me to wear a jacket. I don't golf as well as he does, but I held my own. At some point I just stopped and took in the lay of the land and the joy of spending time with my son. .And somewhere his grandfather was saying, "I love you too young man.  I just wish I could have told you in the living years." "I wish you had too, Dad. But you didn't. Just like me, he forgave you a long time ago. Rest in peace Old Man. Rest in peace."

That little boy we love so much started his life in distress in the NICU of a local hospital. I'll be there early in the morning.  The baby I will hold knows nothing of my father.  She knows nothing of me. All I will have to offer her is my warmth-- my arms, my voice and my love. Our time together will be limited. Soon she will go to a permanent home. Our time will be limited, but I'll make the best of it. She may be the one who got away, but she'll take me with her. I'll see to that.

It's very important that we spend time with the dying, but the living are dying for our love. Love may not seem like much at times, but it's the best we have to give. And it's enough.

The Fear of Falling

"They" say, and "they" you will remember are very smart people who know nearly everything, "they" say that we are born with only two natural fears-the fear of falling and the fear of loud noises. "They" say that we learn and accumulate all of our other fears throughout our lifetimes.

It's interesting to me though that I may have been born with "the fear of falling", but I do not live with "the fear of falling."  I have  experienced several significant falls, but I can't say that I was fearing them when they happened. In each case the fall was obviously unpredicted and over before I could blink. I wonder if this is true even with a newborn baby. I can't believe that the baby lives with "the fear of falling", but certainly immediately reacts in a "fear of falling" situation. Lisa Feldman-Barrett in How Emotions Are Made says that we have no neural network  of fear that lies dormant until triggered. She says that our brains create these emotions on the fly. I wonder the same thing with the "fear of loud noises". I was holding a twenty-four day old baby last Sunday who was sound asleep. His startle reflex was activated when his monitor made a particularly loud noise. The rather violent reflex was over in a second and he remained asleep.  So can we say he had a "fear of the loud noise" or just reacted to it? Felman-Barrett would certainly say that is the case.

"They" also say that "the fear of heights" is different than "the fear of falling." "They" say that they are closely related but are not the same thing.  In my case, though, the higher I climb a ladder "the fear of heights" and "the fear of falling" are in lock step.  I just said that I really don't have a "fear of falling" because I do not anticipate the event. However, here by my own confession I realize that when combined with a reasonable "fear of heights" the  anticipation aspect of "the fear of falling" comes into play. Isn't "the fear of heights" on a ladder a good thing?

I have experienced several falls that are in that first category of unanticipated events where no particular fear was involved. If anything, each of them happened because of my lack of fear. Once as a teenager I was doing something foolhardy on my bicycle while wearing only shorts and a t-shirt. Banking sharply to the right not thinking about the sand on my tires, the bike slid out from under me. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to put my hand down. The first thing that hit the asphalt was my face followed by my arm and my leg. When my mother opened the front door, she nearly passed out. Everybody assumed I had road rash from a motorcycle accident.  That was the most lengthy and painful recovery I've ever experienced. Years later while holding a three month old baby, I was walking down our wooden den steps in my socks when my feet slipped. Cuddling him for  dear life, I slid down  the steps on my back.  I turned every color of the rainbow, but he was just fine. He jokes now that he enjoyed the ride. On the same steps a couple of years ago while holding my seven year old granddaughter with my shoes on, I missed a step close to the bottom and we both tumbled headlong into the landing.  It scared the wits out of both of us, but neither of us were hurt. So did any of these experiences involve "the fear of falling" or the "lack of the fear of falling"?

Just like "the fear of falling" is closely tied to "the fear of heights." For me, anyway, "the fear of falling" is closely  tied to "the fear of failing,."  Last night I had my recurring school dream. These dreams used to be the garden variety of I get to class and find out it's the day of the final or the bell has rung and  I can't even find the hall my class is on, and the likes of that.  I don't need to tell you about these. Lately they have become rather involved and rather cruel.  Last night I got my first college  test back in the History of Western Civilization. I looked at the paper and thought I'd made a B. I looked again and realized I'd made an F. I was wondering how many As and Bs I needed to make to at least end up with a C. When I woke up it took me a few seconds to realize that it was only a bad dream. My GPA was intact.

"Fear of heights", "fear of falling", "fear of failing"  have "fear" in common. "Fear", "phobia" the same thing. There's even "phobophobia",  "the fear of fear."  "Glossophobia" or stage fright, is closely related to "phobophobia". You aren't just anticipating the audience, you're anticipating the fear. Deal with the fear and the audience takes care of itself.

The CDC estimates that the annual cost to the medical system of falls, especially with the elderly, is $34 billion dollars. Could most of them been avoided?  I say none of them could have been avoided or they wouldn't have happened.  Even if you don't get out of bed, a tree can come crashing in your bedroom ("dendrophobia").

For the most part I enjoy eating at the Cracker Barrel. I do, however,  have to deal with  the fear of really bad country music at unnecessary volumes ("phonophobia"). "We got pickup trucks, chicken clucks, Happy even when we're down on our luck. And if you don't know, that's a country rap."  You can't make this stuff up.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

"and finding answers is forgetting all the questions we called home."  David Hodges


My long-term memory is much better than my short-term memory. But "long-term memory" is a relative thing. There are some things that I remember that happened  forty or fifty years ago that are crystal clear. Then there are memories that are rather fuzzy. These are not to be confused with the memories that are very fuzzy. I have other memories that I really can't call "memories" because all  I remember is  that I was there and that something happened. How can I call that "remembering"? Finally, there is another category of memory such as what happened today.  I had a "memory fragment" pop in my head out of nowhere.  I imagine that something I saw triggered it, but I don't know what. Try as I might, the fragment itself was all that I could recall. In brain processing time, it was a piece of a second..

"What difference does it make?" I asked myself.  "Think about something else."   But I couldn't think about anything else.  When something's on my mind, there it is!  I kept trying to remember more of the fragment.  I couldn't remember anything else. But the  fragment led to things I could remember.

The backstory to the fragment is this.  My father had a concrete business. He and his crew of about ten men poured sidewalks, head walls, flumes, curb and gutter. From time to time they poured driveways as well. Helms Construction had a good reputation in the Enterprise area for doing good work at at reasonable price. And Dad delivered what he promised.  Because of that he had a good relationship with customers, suppliers and even city, county and state inspectors.  Everybody liked him. The business he had inherited from his father was significantly  larger, but its size and demands got in the way of his fishing and golfing, so Dad pared it down  more to his liking.  Helms Construction is  where I worked for three long, hot summers.

Pop, my grandfather, and his partner owned Mullins and Helms Construction, a thriving concern in Enterprise.  They, along with  my father,  operated a full-blown concrete operation. The firm owned four concrete mixer trucks, a large loader, a  storage building for supplies, a large conveyor and bin for mixing cement and concrete. A separate office building.  And huge piles of sand and gravel. We called it "the plant."  They also did all the things I mentioned that Helms Construction eventually did.. I remember the plant, but I never worked for that operation. But what I remembered today made me wonder.

Concrete work during south Alabama summers was hot and dirty and grimy and physically uncomfortable. I did a lot of different things in the course of a summer. One job I had for an entire summer of 1970 involved shoveling concrete onto the wings of a flume as the concrete poured from the shoot from the truck. My brother drove the small tractor that pulled the form behind the concrete while one other person and I spread the concrete in the trench to create the flume.  Hard to explain. The point is he was sitting on the tractor making more money than I was shoveling the concrete. Privileges of the first born.The heat of the concrete that had been cooking in  the truck was mixed with the heat of the midday sun. To add to the misery, very often concrete would splash from the shoot down the back of my neck.  So now by the end of the day I had tired, aching muscles in my arms, back and shoulders, the heat of the sun mixed with sweat  with hot concrete down my shirt,    "Quitting time" was my favorite part of the day. Then shower, supper, play chess with Dad. Go to bed. Get up early and do it all again the next day.

That's the backstory. This is the fragment.  For no particular reason, today I remembered driving a dump truck to Bellwood, Alabama and picking up a load of sand. That's it.  I'm sure I did that. But it doesn't make good sense on several levels.  1. Dad bought all  of his concrete which was delivered to the job in trucks. He wouldn't need a load of sand.  2. Why would Pop have asked me to get one dump truck load of sand when I didn't work for  him and he had piles of sand at the plant? 3. If I just wanted to play in the sand I would have driven 90 miles to the family house at Laguna Beach where I wouldn't have needed a dump truck. Bellwood is only twelve miles from Enterprise and they do have a sand pit there, so it is not unreasonable that I would get sand there. I just don't know why. Can't ask Dad or Pop. Not going to ask my brother because he would just say, "What difference does it make?"

On a recent trip to Enterprise, my brother and I visited one of the men who worked for Dad. He worked for Helms Construction over 30 years.  He's in his late eighties now.  He's still in good health and lives alone. The three of us enjoyed reminiscing together about working together all those years ago.  His favorite story he told was inevitable. I knew what was coming.  "I'll never forget that day your dad got so mad at you he threw a shovel at your feet and said,   'If you weren't my son, I'd fire you!'"

Have you ever wondered what my motivation was for  all that college?  Now you know.

The Promise of Living

Some of the music I have enjoyed the most is the music that found me when I simply let YouTube play the next video.  Such was the case this afternoon when after I was listening to a piece by Leoanard Bernstein, YouTube played a work by Aaron Copland that I had never heard.  I thought that over the years I had listened to most, if not all, of his major works.  This music was "The Promise of Living."  Google told me that if was from one of his lesser known operas called The Tender Land. Some musical performances affect me more deeply than others.  In this case the video affected me as deeply as the music.  The YouTube video was a collection of actual videos from the early 20th century.  The cinema included many scenes of people in the act of living, in city parks, in amusement parks and other places.The black and white videos were in stark contrast to the kaleidoscopic color of the music. So in a sense the color of the music brought those videos into living color.

1971 was a pivotal year for me.  I graduated from high school in June and then spent my summer in Kentucky selling Bibles and other books door to door. I have never before or since been as lonely in my life.  And yet never before or since have I experienced the Presence that would be with me and would guide my life.

The week after I got home I entered the Enterprise State Junior College as a freshman music major. I experienced somewhat of an inferiority complex as so many of the high school graduates went on to more prestigious four-year colleges and universities. So there I was sitting in another class in Enterprise, Alabama where I had sat in class for the past twelve years. I was glad to be out of high school, but felt that I wasn't quite in college.

But to make the best of it, I explored my surroundings and found a room that was to change my life. I found a door in the music suite that I decided to open.  "Opening doors"' would be a metaphor of dramatic proportions. I discovered behind the door a large closet.  As a fledgling audiophile the three turntables, headphones and shelf of albums got my blood stirring.  When I graduated two years later more than anything I learned in any class, the "classical music" I had unearthed in the closet had changed me the most. Now not just the "church music" of my childhood and youth touched me, the music that had propelled me into the "music" in the first place, but my psyche and soul had a relationship with the serious music I would formally study for the next five years.

Four year later, after graduating with a music education degree from Samford University, I continued my studies toward a master degree in church music at what was then a prestigious seminary music school.  Time would fail me to describe what happened to me personally and professionally those two years.  The professors of music and theology had a profound effect on me.  I was a part of choirs and ensembles including a choir that performed Handel's Messiah with the Louisville Orchestra. For three consecutive nights in December of 1978 I stood with that select choir of forty singing with one one of the best orchestras in the world. I kept wondering how I got there. How is this even possible that this is me? The next semester I was honored when asked to perform music on my senior voice recital that I had composed myself. David Helms singing David Helms.  It was quite a moment.  But of all of that and more, the place that had the biggest impact on me was in the basement of school library, the music library,  They had three turntables, headphones and a vast library of albums. The afternoon in the late winter of 1979 when Leonard Bernstein's Mass found me, three hours later I walked into the light of a cold Louisville afternoon, a different person than I was when I walked in.

This afternoon I searched "A Simple Song" from Bernstein's Mass to listen on YouTube.  Listening to any part of Mass is like visiting an old friend. This music has been my friend for thirty-eight years. But who could have predicted that the next up was Copland's "A Promise of Living", music I had never heard.

Isn't it an irony that after forty-five years of listening to serious music, and after enjoying several expensive and sophisticated stereo systems, the place I listen to music is at my laptop with stereo headphones.  Thanks to the magic of YouTube while writing this I have been listening to the complete opera of The Tender Land.  I cannot begin to tell you what if feels like for the music to play my life backwards to that closet in Enterprise, Alabama where I discovered Aaron Copland forty-five years ago.

In August of  2005 I entered college again at the Dalton State College in Dalton, Georgia to pursue a lifelong dream of earning a business degree. While earning those music degrees I would sit in class thinking "shouldn't I be studying math and science?" My advisor not only helped me skip certain classes based on my transcripts, but she walked me to various professors to show them my credentials. After that process several of my credits transferred to Dalton.  Interesting thing. All of them were from the Enterprise State Junior College, my associates degree.  Not one of them transferred from my bachelor or master degrees.

I feel like only a distant relative of that eighteen year old boy who wandered into that closet at the Enterprise State Junior College, in August of 1971. He and I are different in oh so many ways. . And yet if he had not discovered Copland, Barber and Bach for himself I don't know how far he would have gotten in music school. Had he not put on those headphones and dropped that needle,  he may of dropped those classes. That would have been a shame.

"The Promise of Living?"  There is none is there.  But today I have a pulse. I have eyes to see and ears to hear.  I have a laptop, some headphones, blogspot and an internet connection. And I remember another time in another place when he too  didn't need much more.

Losing My Grip

Disclaimer: I use "at" and "to" throughout this post grammatically incorrectly. I could have made liberal use of "at which" or "to which" instead of ending a sentence or a phrase  with "at" and "to", but I didn't bother.  Nonetheless, I think you'll be able to follow the story.

Over my lifetime I have been proficient at and then later totally incapable of performing certain tasks. I'm going to share but a few examples. Most, but not all, of these examples come from my world of music.

In the sixth grade  I picked up a trombone and learned to play it.  I never had any formal lessons and I don't remember who taught me to play. I guess I taught myself.  The band in my high school was, as you might assume, made up of high school students, grade nine through twelve.  Again I don't remember why but the band director asked me to audition for the Enterprise High School Marching Band at the end of the seventh grade.  I auditioned and found myself a member of the band in my eighth grade year. So instead of "marching" four years I "marched" five. But you had probably already done the math. At my high school graduation I was sitting in a fog (something I'm still very proficient at) when the person beside me said, "Go up there."  "What?", I asked.  "They just called your name. Go up there."  She could have easily punked me but I went to the front, shook my principal's hand and he gave me a trophy. When I got back to my seat, it read "The John Philip Sousa Outstanding Band Member Award."   Except for part of one semester in college, I've never picked up a trombone again.  Now I can hardly get a sound from it.

I remember the first time I produced a sound by blowing my fists. There are several techniques including interlacing my fingers and blowing through the mouthpiece provided by my thumbs.  But the technique I became quite proficient at was wrapping the four fingers of my right hand inside of the grip of my left hand.  Now as I blew thorough my thumbs and produced a sound I could wiggle the fingers of my left hand in the air to produce specific notes.  In other words I could play songs. I got so good at this that I found myself standing on a stage in front of about 700 young people playing The Star Spangled Banner on my fists.  Think about the range of that song and be fairly amazed at that feat. At the end I even blasted  up to that high note on "brave" that singers often pop up to when it's high enough as it is.  Much applause ensued.  I can now make a sound but that's about all.

Perhaps the most incredible thing I ever learned to do in music was something I was required to do in graduate school.  As a part of my "piano proficiency," I had to play all the major and minor scales on the piano. The thing is, I had to play all of these scales up and down two octaves using the proper fingering. What I want you to be amazed at is that the fingering is completely different for the left and right hands. Also the fingering changed as I descended from what it was when I ascended. So I was turning my thumbs and fingers under at miscellaneous intervals through the exercise. I accomplished it, made my A and never did it again.  Wish I'd kept it up, but I didn't. I play the piano, but with whatever fingering comes the easiest. When I consider how useful that skill would be on the keyboard, it grieves me. But not as much as not being able to play my fists.

But yesterday I found out that I am no longer able to do something that used to come very easily. Until I found out yesterday that I could no longer do it, I had no idea that I had somehow lost this ability.  Until recently when I ate sunflower seeds I was able to put a multitude of them in my mouth, slide them into my jaw with my tongue, retrieve them one by one with my tongue, crack it open with my teeth. separate the shell from the kernel with my tongue, eat the kernel and spit out the shell all the time keeping the others in reserve in my jaw.  This ability especially came in  handy at baseball games.  Baseball happens very quickly and if you look down to get another seed you can miss the best play of the game. Yesterday when I tried to do this the shell and the kernel were hopelessly mixed together and I had to spit out the whole thing. The best I could do was to put three or four sunflower seeds in my mouth and accomplish all of the above before I had to reload and do it again. These seeds happen to be FritoLay Ranch Sunflower Seeds. The package says "Naturally and Artificially Flavored."  Is there some "natural" substance called "ranch"? Anyway I like them.

So what is something I used to be able to do that I'm still good at?  This morning I learned that I am still good at cuddling newborn babies.  He slept most of the time, woke up once, looked up at me and decided he was safe enough and immediately went back to sleep.  He had no idea I could no longer play my fists or negotiate a mouthful of sunflower seeds.  And I doubt he would have lost much respect if he had known. While I was still holding this beautiful twenty-four day old baby boy his new foster Mom appeared to take him home.  I carefully handed him to  her as she saw him and held him for the first time.  Sometimes when you say "goodbye", it means goodbye.

As of this writing, I still can't play the trombone. I can't play a tune on my fists.  I can play up and down the C major scale two octaves using the proper fingering, but that's about all.   I can still provide love and comfort for newborn babies, for a few hours at a time.. After a little more than twenty-four hours, I can negotiate about ten sunflower seeds in my mouth at a time. I feel pretty good about this. And there''s always tomorrow.

When I wrote "grammatically incorrectly" that didn't sound right either as I always read it in the context of "grammatically incorrect" but in that sentence it seemed okay.  Is there really any proper use of "grammatically incorrectly"? But I never was an English teacher so that is not a skill I ever lost.

Macaroni and Albinoni

Macaroni is something good to eat with cheese.  Tomaso Albinoni was a prolific, but  not so famous  Baroque composer. After listening to his music for several days, it's amazing to me that he's not a "famous Baroque composer".

He actually was famous in his day. And  more than likely you are very familiar with his music.  My hometown of Enterprise,  Alabama promotes its "world-famous Boll Weevil monument." The monument is not only literally central to downtown Enterprise, but it's central to the city's identity. But "world-famous"?  I doubt that many people in Milan or Tuscany know much about it. But it's famous nonetheless.

If you have heard of no other music by Albinoni, I would bet that you are quite familiar with his Adagio for Strings and Organ in G Minor. When I heard it just now I thought, "How do I know that?  Where have I heard it?"  I heard it just a few weeks ago during the movie Manchester by the Sea.  It has been featured in several other soundtracks as well. Other movies where you'll find him are Rollerball, Flashdance and Show Me Love. Albinoni has been featured in many TV series including Six Feet Under, Cosmos, the Sopranos and Scenes from a Marriage.  So if his music is this "popular", you ask, "then why have I never heard of him?" I majored in music, why had I never heard of him?

There's a very interesting back story to his Adagio in G minor.  It's very interesting to me, anyway. Part of this is my own story, but most of the story has been hanging around for years waiting for me to find it.  My story is that when I was listening to his Adagio before I knew anything about him, I thought it was "Romantic" music.  Romantic in music, as you probably know, is not about sexual attraction, it's about a specific period of music.  As a refresher starting in the sixth century, Medieval music bled into the Renaissance which became Baroque and then the brief Classical period became Romantic.  Romantic music brought us to 20th Century and now we're in the Modern period. So as I was listening to this Romantic music I Googled Albinoni to discover that he was a Baroque composer and not a Romantic.   I pride myself on figuring out who composed the music I'm listening to. If I can't figure that out, I at least recognize the time period it belongs to. I had missed this music by a whole era and more than 100 years.  But then I read on.

Remo Giazotto (1910-1998) was an Italian musicologist, critic and composer.  He spent most of his life recovering and cataloging the music of Tomaso Albonini. He said that he reconstructed Albonini's Adagio for Stings and Organ in G Minor from fragments he discovered.  He published  the piece in 1958 and it was an immediate popular success. But here's the kicker.  Six years later he recanted and said that it was his music. He said that he had composed all of it.  At this point the critics and scholars didn't know what to believe.  Over the years it has become widely accepted as Giazotto's composition and not Albonini's. So my original assessment of Romanticism was still over a hundred years off, just in the other direction.

Johann Sebastian Bach sets the standard for what it means for music to be Baroque.  A criticism of Baroque music is that it is rather "ornamental and exaggerated." As much as I enjoy listening to Bach, I will admit that it can be rather mechanical and mathematical.  As I listen to Albonini's music, the music that he actually composed, it sounds like none of those things to me. It is melodically, harmonically and rhythmically rich, full and vibrant generating an  aura of intrinsic beauty. Is this description  starting to read like a bottle of Chianti?  I'm not throwing any shade Bach's way, I'm just saying that for Baroque, this music is refreshingly different. So why is J.S. Bach a household name and nobody has ever heard of Albonini?  Especially considering his IMBd.  I really don't know.  I do know that Albonini had at least one admirer in his day--J.S. Bach.  Bach even used some of his themes for his own compositions.

According to Macaroni and Cheese Facts, macaroni and cheese is the number one cheese recipe in the United States. About half of the children in the United States will eat macaroni and cheese in any given twelve week period. Kraft sells over one million boxes of macaroni and cheese every day.

It's world-famous.

Horrible Church Signs

I can't not read church signs.  How can I say that and it not be a double negative?  I am compelled to read church signs.  I am drawn to them like a bug to the light. Like the ocean to the shore. Like the earth to the sun. Like the moon to the earth. Like a pig to the mud.  Enough.  Many church signs are clever. Some are actually thought-provoking. Most are mean-spirited.  I guess they are meant to inspire fear and guilt. Some are annoying like the one I've seen on several churches lately "Free trip to Heaven. Come inside for details." If I stopped and went inside, I hope they would at least give me a nice brochure.  I choose to be offended by most church signs, but  for reasons I don't understand, I read them anyway.

A few years ago during August, we experienced a heat wave of 100 degree plus temperatures day and night for several weeks. The heat was oppressive.  People were dying. As I drove by a Baptist church near here, I read on their sign "Hot? Think about hell!" And then recently I drove by a country Baptist church whose sign read, "Stop, drop and roll doesn't work in hell."  These messages are "the good news of Jesus Christ?"

Southern Baptists certainly do not hold a monopoly on horrible messages in front of their churches, but from what I've read over the years they are particularly adept at it.  There is a non-denominational "contemporary church" near where I live that I pass quite often.  Its messages are not exactly positive, but I don't find them to be offensive.  It's just something I must read as I pass by. But I am entirely baffled by the message I read today.  The sign reads "What if we are right." That's it!  "What if we are right." I thought the message might apply to something on the other side.  On my way home I read it and there was no relationship between the two messages that I could see. So now I was back to wondering what the person that posted that sign had in mind.

Did he mean by "What if  we are right",  "What if we are correct?"  Correct about what?  Is the message possibly referring to the previous message on the sign?  Are we motorists supposed to remember every sign?  Just because I read all of them doesn't mean I remember all of them. Is it possibly "What if we are correct" about some theological position that we are supposed to know about their church?  If so, that leaves me out. I have no idea what they believe about anything.

Did he mean, "What if we are politically right?"  Did he mean, "At this church we are Pro life, Pro Trump, Pro guns, Pro military, Pro US flag,  Pro White, Pro second amendment rights, Pro Nascar, Pro conservative values like limited government (unless the government is pushing our agenda and in that case we are Pro bigger government), Pro wall at the south, Pro expelling illegals and limiting immigrants, Pro Muslim ban, Pro defunding Planned Parenthood, Pro reversing Roe V. Wade,   Pro making America great again like it was before women's suffrage, civil rights, social security and Medicare.  In other words, if the liberals and the main stream media are for it, we're against it."  Is that what they meant?

Since I have been witness to many church-wide fights and blow ups over the  years , I couldn't help but entertain another possibility.  What if the pastor is making a point to the members of the congregation who are on the other side of his argument.  What if the church is split down the middle over the color of the new carpet with the pastor on one side of the conflict and he's telling the other side as they drive up for church "What if we are right?"(run-on sentence).  This explanation, based on years of  personal experience, is as plausible as any.

About twenty years ago a local Church of Christ posted a very unusual message on its sign.  The church moved and put the property up for sale leaving the sign in place for over  two  years.  Since I read it every single time I passed it, I memorized every word.  It simply read, "An ounce of probably is worth a pound of perhaps."  I couldn't find it in the Bible or The Farmer's Almanac so I have no idea what it meant.  But that doesn't mean I didn't give it a lot of thought. I'll just leave it with you to decide for yourself. And when you figure it out, please let me know.

Maybe the first church to buy a portable sign for their front yard had good intentions.  Maybe after much discussion and disagreement,  when the "I"s had it, they intended to do something good for the church and for the motorists who passed. If I didn't have enough attention problems, churches now have flashing LED signs. I am now forced to read more than one message at a time. Not all church signs are bad or troubling. One rather delightful sign in front of a United Methodist Church reads, "Don't let worries kill you. Let the church help." Or the Lutheran Church that posted, "God didn't make anything without a purpose, but mosquitoes come close." And finally the Reformed Church that wrote, "Keep using my name in vain.  I'll make rush hour longer." But somewhere along the way these signs became a medium for the lowest parts of human nature and the worst of the "Christian religion" to publicly express themselves.  To me their message seems to be, "We love you and Jesus loves you, but He delights in sending you to hell." But  no matter how bad these signs get, until Jesus comes again, I'll read every one of them.

Charlie's Place

James M. Stewart was a decorated fighter pilot during World War II.  He remained in the Air Force Reserve and spent time on a B-52 in Vietnam. There he rose to the rank of Brigadier General.  When he died at age eighty-nine in 1997, he left behind a legacy of admiration and respect unparalleled in the United States Air Force. Or any branch of the military.

In case you don't recognize his name, you probably know him as Jimmy Stewart, the actor.  You know him from Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, The Philadelphia Story and It's a Wonderful Life.  I know him from Harvey. And I mean that I actually know him.  I met him.  I didn't actually talk to him. One person in our group of four was our designated spokesperson. The rest of us just took in the moment. 

Because of the losses he caused or incurred during World War II, it was said of  him that he became "flak happy."  We now know this as PTSD. Stewart wrestled with guilt and remorse for the rest of his life for the killing of civilians in France and Germany and the loss of members of his own squadron, In one case because of a gross miscalculation, he bombed the wrong city. The military may have called it "callateral damage", but he called it an unthinkable tragedy.

After the war when  he returned to Hollywood, Jimmy Stewart poured his pain into his various roles. One role in particular, that of George Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life, allowed  him to express his deep loss and grief. It's no wonder that this film has become the icon that it is in Hollywood and around the world. For Stewart, it wasn't just a perfect role; it was autobiography.

 In June of 1975 I was on a two week choir trip. England was our fifth country to visit in ten days.  We had been sight-seeing all day. I was exhausted, a little depressed and just wanted to be left alone for a while.  I settled down in my hotel room to read a novel I had bought that day.  There was a knock on the door and when I opened it Ben was standing there.  He said, "You need to get up and get dressed. You have a date tonight."  "What do  you mean, a date?"  He said "Susan is going with me and  Elaine is going with you."  I said, "I don't know where you're going, but I have plans to stay here."  He said, "Get up and get dressed. We're leaving in an hour." 

Somewhere along the way I learned that we were taking the Tube into London to see a play. "David, it's not just 'a play'.  It's Harvey. And it's starring Jimmy Stewart." No offense to my very sweet and cute double date, but for the first time that evening I was perking up a bit.

Whenever he introduced himself in the play he said, "Dowd's the name. Elwood P." 

 Elwood P. Dowd was an "affable man".  He never met a stranger and he always introduced those strangers to his best friend Harvey, an invisible rabbit.  Harvey stood six feet, three inches tall, interestingly enough the same height as Jimmy Stewart. Harvey went everywhere Elwood went, but he especially liked taking Harvey with him to bars.  His favorite bar was Charlie's Place and he and Harvey went there quite often.. His family tried to get him committed, but his invisible friend had a strange effect on people. It was almost as if Harvey was real.

The American playwright Mary Chase wrote Harvey.  It premiered on Broadway on November 11, 1944. Jimmy Stewart was still  fighting in Europe, but before its run of 1775 shows was over, Jimmy Stewart starred as Elwood P. Dowd.    Stewart  was  thirty-nine years old.

Jimmy Stewart was sixty-seven years old during London's West End revival in 1975. There Harvey was performed for just a few months at the Prince of  Wales Theatre. Stewart again played the role of Elwood P. Dowd. And thanks to Ben, I was there.

This afternoon I was thinking about "Charlie's Place."  And how we all need a "Charlie's Place."  It might be a bar, a church, a coffee shop or the back porch of a friend.  It can be any place where we feel expected, accepted and loved.  And I was thinking of how much Elwood loved that place and no matter who he met or what they might be dealing with, he said, "Let's just go down to Charlie's Place." And I was thinking "I hope that Jimmy Stewart had a 'Charlie's Place.' "  If there really is a Heaven, maybe for all of us it's "Charlie's Place." And there we'll spend eternity with our friends and invisible friends who are no longer invisible. On tap is friendship, peace of mind and great laughter.

As we were leaving the theatre  that night, it occurred to somebody for us wait in the alley for Jimmy Stewart to come out to his limo. Amazingly enough, it didn't occur to anyone else.  Besides the driver, we were the only souls in the alley. After about ten minutes the stage door opened and  a lumbering giant emerged. He smiled and greeted us and on cue Elaine, a charming southern lady with a charming southern accent, said "Mistuh Stu-wart, may I kiss you?"  He said as he bent down to meet her, "Sure honey" as she kissed him on the cheek.

The book I had bought to read was The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens. You know, light reading for the depressed. I had wanted to read something British.  I eventually got around to reading it. But isn't it an irony that instead of reading an unfinished book by a British author, I instead, in London, England, saw a play by an American icon.  

I love going out on the town from time to time. You never know who you're going to meet. But tonight I'm home with my wife, and I couldn't be happier. As it turns out, Charlie's Place isn't really a place. It's a state of mind.

Listening Skills

"Poor Dad. He doesn't have anything to listen to."  Dave Helms, circa 1987

My first music producing device was a small plastic record player. As best as I can remember it only played 45 rpm records, the small records with the big hole in the center. But as I think about it, it must have been that I only had 45 rpm records because the device on the center of the turntable could be lifted or dropped to accommodate different formats.  The first records I recall when  I was about three years were singles Carrots Grow from Carrot Seeds and My Old Virginie Shack.  It's very possible that one was the flip side of the other.  Mother must have bought for me more records, but those are the only two that I recall.

Then Mother and Dad inherited a large console record player from my great aunt when she upgraded. It wasn't a stereo as it only had one large speaker, but the sound quality was quite a step up from my small record player. The 33 1/3/  long play albums that I most remember were collections from Reader's Digest that they probably inherited with the unit.  I spent many blissful hours sitting by that unit listening to those albums. A soundtrack for the movie Rome Adventure was some of my favorite music. It sent me. The movie showed in  1962 so I was at least nine years old.

I assembled my first stereo when I was about fifteen years old. The components  consisted of a six watt-per-channel reel-to-reel tape deck as my receiver, a turntable and two speakers.  I mounted the speakers on adjacent walls in my bedroom to enhance the stereo effect. I seldom used the reel-to-reel, but I made very good use of the turntable. My serious adventure into the world of stereophonic music had begun. Strange thing.  Albums couldn't have cost very much, but my brother and I bought them together. We became co-owners of those records. After we heard Spinning Wheel on the radio, we pooled our resources, went downtown to the record store and bought the Blood, Sweat and Tears album, Purchasing an album was like Christmas morning, we were only familiar with that one song. My brother and I listened to it together. Expecting an  album of songs like Spinning Wheel we were utterly amazed with the first track was serene music played on a classical guitar and a choir of flutes ending with wind chimes, footsteps and a door closing.  This is rock music? And who the heck is Erik Satie?

Because of my love of music after high school, I took, I thought, the next logical step and majored in music. After seven years of college, two degrees and forty-five years of making music, my music life has come full circle. Instead of creating music, I listen to music. As it turns out, it's listening that I enjoy most of all. Technically, I was listening to choirs the entire time I was conducting them, but just listening requires much less time and effort. Also, because of my critical ear, no matter how good it was, I always heard the flaws in my own productions,  Sirius/XM, Spotify or a CD play music flawlessly every time with no effort from me. And no self-criticism from me. I didn't produce it.

I'm sitting at my current stereo system. It consists of my computer, Bose noise-canceling headphones and an external CD drive. And then, of course, I have my Bose surround-sound stereo system on wheels in my car. Music on the road is unique as the music and the constantly changing scenery create a combined aesthetic effect. Music in the car late at night has a quality that is unparalleled in any other context. Have you ever listened to Stairway to Heaven while alone on a lonely highway  after midnight?  That final a cappella motif after that incredible song is like from another world.

When my son was about six years old, my receiver (my tape deck) stopped working. Since it was about twenty years old,  I decided to not spend any money to get it repaired. For several months I was without a stereo. "Poor Dad. He doesn't have anything to listen to,."  Out of the mouth of babes.

My next stereo was a sophisticated rack of components including a pre-amp, 50 watt-per-channel amp, an equalizer, a cassette deck, and a high quality turntable and speakers, Later I replaced those speakers with tower Polk Audio speakers. They were somewhat unsightly, but  the sound was stunning.

People comment to me about what I remember. You read what I remember and have no idea what I don't.. Although I remember that my brother and I co-owned those records, about thirty of them,  I don't remember what we did with them when he left for college.  I think we must have flipped coins or drew straws as we loved them equally as much. I really don't know.  What I do know is that beginning with My Old Virginie Shack when I was three,to this soundtrack of Mark McKenzie on Spotify I'm listening to now, listening to music has brought me more therapy than  money can buy and more joy than I have words to express.

When my time comes, I don't want streets of gold and a mansion on a hilltop, just give me a cabin in the woods, a laptop with internet connection, Spotify and some noise-cancelling headphones.  There's only so much of Amazing Grace I want to hear.

Improvisation

For me, "traditional" Zen meditation is very uncomfortable. Because of that I don't do it.  As much as I could benefit, I'm sure, from "traditional" meditation, I can never get beyond the physical and mental discomfort to get to the "meditation."  Or if the physical and mental discomfort is the "meditation", then I'm willing to do without it.

That said, I meditate quite often.  I am reading a book called, Meditation, Now or Never by Steve Hagen., which is a how-to book on "traditional" meditation.  I benefit from reading about it; I'm just not willing to do it.  So how is it that I meditate often?

When Hagen says "now or never" it's not in a threatening sense; it's in a very real and supporting sense. As I understand it, He is saying that meditation can only happen "now" or it will "never" happen.  And of course "now" is a perpetually moving target.  So for me I can meditate anytime, anywhere and any way I choose to meditate.  This realization isn't totally mine.  When I read Dan Harris "10% Happier", he gave me permission to accept my method to be as valid as any method.

I meditate when I'm eating, when I'm sleeping, when I'm on my way to work, when I'm  at work, when I'm listening to music, when I'm writing (and often listening to music), when I'm hiking in the woods or just walking in the mall, when I'm in a boring meeting, anytime, anywhere and any way I choose.

Although I meditate on the go, I do incorporate something that approximates "traditional" meditation.  I have a "place" in my home.  It's my happy place. My spot. My space.  It's where I'm sitting now. It's where I read, where I write, where I listen to music, where I email my friends, where I manage Facebook  and where I meditate. "Traditional" meditation involves sitting on a cushion with my spine straight looking at a blank wall. Or I  can use a kneeling bench if I prefer.  My meditation involves sitting in a comfortable office chair, slightly slouched with my feet propped up on the arm of the sofa beside me. I'm looking through the plate glass door at trees, shrubs, grass, the bright sunshine, squirrels and birds. And I'm either listening to beautiful music or to my wind chimes.The benefit for me of this method is that I really don't want it to be over as opposed to I can't wait for this to be over.  So is it better to have a rather short, uncomfortable "traditional" meditation or an indefinitely long "nontraditional" meditation.

It's very possible that one of my dearest friends, the person who gave  me Meditation: Now or Never, is reading this.  I have all the respect in the world for you and what I'm writing certainly means no disrespect to you or Zen meditation..  For that matter your book is helping me to become even more comfortable with my style and to validate my methods to remain at least 10% Happier. Something else about this friend. He gave me a string of prayer beads a Rosary of sorts, that I use quite often as I pray.  Each ball on the bracelet belongs to someone I love.  Those people get prayed for quite often.  One of those balls belongs to this friend.  He gets prayed for  at least once every day.  I have a bead for "everyone else" so for what it's worth, you, my reader, get prayed for as well.

No matter how one meditates, all of the instruction I have ever heard or read says that it begins with the breath. And continues with the breath. I am to focus on my breathing throughout the process.  And to breath normally. Funny thing about. For me, which one do you want me to do?  I can either breath normally or I can focus on my breath. I can't do both. When I focus on my breath it is always somewhat more labored than when I'm not. Breathing is the most unconscious and life-sustaining thing we do  all day and night. If we stop breathing for five or six minutes we're dead. Or brain dead. I have no trouble breathing normally. I've been doing that many times for a very long time. It is estimated that we inhale and exhale about 700 million times in our lifetimes.  That's a lot of breathing.  But ask me to focus on it and it's not natural. If I meditate when and where and how I  meditate, I'm just breathing. Isn't that the point?

I have six batteries that are very important to me. Four of them are rechargeable. Two are not. I can recharge the battery in my Bose noise-cancelling headphones (two of them). While I'm using one, I'm recharging the other, I  can recharge my cellphone and my camera batteries.  I have to replace the batteries in my mouse and my smoke detector.  As for my rechargeable batteries, I keep them charged all the time. As for the other two, I have a basket full of AA batteries.  My most important rechargeable battery is my brain.  My brain is very needy, very hungry, constantly starving to be fed. Insatiable, actually. It is perpetually being discharged. Its most coveted forms of nourishment are human love and affection, reading, writing, listening to music and constant meditation. Oh, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.  If I don't recharge this battery on a regular basis, I get strung out and extremely annoyed and annoying. None of this is optional for me if I want to be a healthy and happy human being. Just ask my wife and those who know me best. "Go relax. It's better that way for all of us."

Another funny thing. I walked up to the kitchen just now to get another cup of coffee. When I came back to my sacred desk, the battery on my headphones was dead. Its the listening part of the device that needs the battery and not the hearing. But neither part works without the battery. The fully charged battery was sitting on the desk beside me.  It takes me about thirty seconds to replace it. There  was no break in my music.  And isn't that what we all need? Not necessarily the need to recharge but to never be discharged. That is not easy, but it's possible. My music and writing are my recharge. My meditation is my stay charged; it provides constant mental nourishment.

I'm listening to the music of Ola Gjeilo. YouTube introduced him to me about four months ago. I let the video I was listening to bleed into the next and there he was. He is a Norwegian musician trained at Julliard. The music I'm listening to now is some of his piano improvisations. It's hard for me to believe that music this complex and beautiful was recorded as he improvised. But that's what he says he did.  If you know music, what I'm hearing now are triples in the right hand and duples in the left. No easy feat even when rehearsed. Almost impossible when improvised.

No matter how educated and experienced we are, when we wake up each day we improvise; we do the best we can do.  And how much better that best is when we're rested and alert. When  we're recharged and recharging. It's our one and only day. Our one and only  life. We can live it now or never.

From the Diary of Useless Information

Disclaimer: I know very little about the science of nutrition. The information that I offer may or may not be accurate. "Proper nutrition" is complicated and varies from person to person. Matters of personal health need to be discussed with your doctor and competent nutritionists who do not have their own "health products" to sell.

As I understand it all sugars are carbohydrates, but not all carbohydrates are sugar. The reason carbohydrates and sugar are listed separately on the nutritional information of your food product is because they are different things.  What I have not been able to figure out is if some or all of the sugar content is contained in the carbohydrate content or if they are  separate and you add them for the total sugar content. Even if the sugars are contained in the carbohydrates, it is very important to notice how much of each you are about to ingest.

Calories are units of energy and are a necessary part of our diet. Using the adage "everything in moderation",  every day if you consume more calories than you burn from activity you will gain weight. Regardless of your diet (in the nutritional sense and the weight loss sense), if you are concerned about weight gain or loss it is important to notice the calories in what you choose to eat and drink.

I'm writing this because of a "blast from the past" memory that I experienced this morning. I am a heavy drinker. I consume a lot of liquids in a day and a week.  I drink copious amounts of water, tea, coffee, some juices and a moderate amount of alcohol.  I'm not concerned about my alcohol intake; it's the juices I have to be careful about.  I love the taste of fruit juices. And I used to kid myself about the "health benefits" of any of them. What could be bad about drinking a liquid of 100% processed fruit? Even if they are packed as "health drinks", the nutritional information on the product tells a different tale. Fruit juices are packed with carbohydrates and sugars. Furthermore, most of them contain little or no fiber and protein.  They are, in fact,  processed by the body as "empty calories." But they sure taste good.

I  drink a lot of V8 juice which as juices go is pretty healthy.  But recently I've discovered the "flavored fruit beverages" packaged by V8.  My favorite one, and again relatively healthy, is Berry Bliss. It not only contains less of the bad stuff and at least some of the good stuff, but it tastes like a good glass of Welch's Grape Juice. It contains about half the calories, some fiber and one gram of protein.  Even with that, I consume a bottle in small quantities over about a two week period.

So what happened this morning?  Why am I writing this?  When I poured the last of the Berry Bliss into my glass,  it measured about four ounces.  To stretch the drink I filled the glass up with water.  It wasn't half bad. Well, technically, I guess it was half bad. But then it hit me ! Growing up when my mother served us Welch's Grape Juice, she diluted it with about 30% water and then added about two tablespoons of sugar.  The only reason I can think of for why she did  that was to make it go a lot further and save a few cents.  It certainly saved no carbohydrates, sugar and calories.  But what I remembered is that for years that's the way I drank Welch's Grape Juice. She and I never diluted any other juice, just grape juice.  It was years later that it occurred to me that I was supposed to drink it straight.  When I did, I never looked back.

Isn't it funny the things we do simply because that's the way we did it way back when?  And we never stop to consider why we're doing it. It is very important that we, from time to time, take inventory of our opinions and behavior to make sure that they are our own, and are still useful and meaningful to our lives. Maybe for some it makes good financial and nutritional sense to dilute grape juice with water and load it up with sugar.  For me, it doesn't. I opt for the natural sugars from the grapes. And kid myself about the rest.

My nephrologist tells me that all these fluids I consume every day help my body process the medicine I take and actually help protect my kidneys from some of its side effects.

I drink a lot.  And when  I travel, I stop a lot too.