I’ve been thinking lately about the difference between someone doing something wrong versus my feeling that I was wronged. Going back a few years, I was managing an apartment complex, and I thought to do a pretty good job. But there was one tenant who was lying, manipulating and backstabbing; the very definition of antisocial personality disorder. The fact that she did these things was indisputable and by any moral definition short of Nihilism, it was wrong. However, I found myself often feeling angry about her actions when they were directed towards me. I took a personal offense, even though I knew she was this way with everybody. I began seeing a pattern in my spiritual life where her “attacks” would occur at the very time something good spiritually was going on. It became predictable. One day I had a great conversation on the phone with one of our bishops, very encouraging and full of Godly praise. Shortly after that, my theological mentor called. As I was relating the phone call, I said that it was about time for the neighbor to do a sociopathic fly by. Within a couple of minutes I heard the screen door open, and close. I waited a moment and opened it to find an “anonymous” note complaining about something or another. At that point I laughed and prayed aloud thanking God for his blessings and calling out Satan for his feeble attacks, telling him I was onto his game and it would no longer have an effect on me. The attacks stopped at that point never to happen again. When we deny Satan his attacks, calling them out for what they are and as an interference in a life committed to Christ, he has to stop.
I share this story because I’ve often reflected that Satan’s favorite way to attack us and take our eye off of Christ is to play with and to our pride. It has been that way since the beginning. Then the serpent said to the woman, “You will not surely die. For God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil. - Genesis 3.4-5 Satan was playing to Eve’s pride and vanity. In our growth as disciples, the most basic area where we are changed is moving from a focus on ourself and our flesh with its inclinations, towards a desire to be humbled before God seeking only to serve Him; becoming more Christlike and less worldly. This is the constant war we wage between our flesh and our spirit.
St. Paul describes love, the opposite of pride in 1 Corinthians 13.4-7 4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Psalm 10.4 directly contrasts pride and seeking God, The wicked in his proud countenance does not seek God; God is in none of his thoughts.
All of which was brought to mind recently when someone behaved wrongly, in a manner contrary to humility and recognizing some good things I had done. Things in which I took great pride. We recently moved and in the process of getting our things out of the old place, the new people there “helped.” Things were done that were inconsiderate, some of our belongings were carelessly handled so they were either broken or discarded, and a garden project I had been working on was either forgetfully or thoughtlessly destroyed. While these actions were undoubtedly wrong, I was harboring quite a bit of anger and resentment at having been wronged. Praying about it, God spoke to my heart that there is a difference between someone’s behavior and actions, which we may label as right, wrong, or some other moral tag, and how we feel and react about it. It reminded me that oftentimes when we have a negative reaction to some event or perceived slight, the empirical issue is one of our pride have been affronted. Something that we placed value on, aside from God, was disrespected, dishonored, or otherwise devalued. Our negative feelings then manifest in defense of that thing we are proud of.
Teaching in Matthew 8.39-42 the Lord says, But I tell you not to resist an evil person. But whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also. If anyone wants to sue you and take away your tunic, let him have your cloak also. And whoever compels you to go one mile, go with him two. Give to him who asks you, and from him who wants to borrow from you do not turn away. A fine teaching on not taking offense.
People are people. We all suffer the awareness of our own mortality and desire to protect and possess. But contrast those worldly affections to the eternal hope we have in Christ, the things of this world are meaningless. Our attachment to them, is a reminder and proof of further work we need to do in moving our lives from the attentions of the flesh to the better and higher things of God.
Wednesday, July 17, 2019
Snowstorms and Faith
The snow was blinding, beyond a white-out. I left the house at 5:00 am for what is normally a 35 minute drive. Even in the dark, the worst part is the chance of a deer or antelope becoming suicidal on the road where trucks and cars are hurtling along at 70 miles per hour. Today, was different, I averaged 30 miles per hour, the snow in the headlights a curtain of white while the four-wheel drive kept the slipping to a minimum. In these conditions, you keep your high beams off to avoid the jump to lightspeed effect. I took solace knowing that if I had an accident, I wouldn’t be badly injured since I was driving slowly. Driving in the dark, your headlights show the way and roadside reflectors give reassurance that you’re on the right path. This morning was different.
As I crawled along, my only reassurance was the reflector coming up on my right. I couldn’t see the next reflector, trusting that based on the one passing out of sight, the next would soon appear and I was on the right path. The next reflector would come into view, I’d breathe a small sigh of relief and continue on.
In times like this, you are traveling on faith. Faith in your truck, faith in the people maintaining the roads, faith in your concentration, and most importantly faith that God is in control. All of these had me thinking about other ways that God guides us in our walk of faith. So many times, we know that we are doing all that we can, things are chaotic, we’re scared, but we keep moving forward. We pray for guidance, protection, answers, and understanding; and all along the way, if we are looking, God is giving us small answers and reassurances. He does not always speak loudly, parting the seas or stopping the storm. Oftentimes we have to pay attention to our prayers and relationship to see the road markers He puts out.
So when your life is chaotic, you’re scared, and feel that everything is out of control, stay faithful, remain steadfast in prayer, and know that while God does not always give thundering answers, He always has road markers for you to follow.
As I crawled along, my only reassurance was the reflector coming up on my right. I couldn’t see the next reflector, trusting that based on the one passing out of sight, the next would soon appear and I was on the right path. The next reflector would come into view, I’d breathe a small sigh of relief and continue on.
In times like this, you are traveling on faith. Faith in your truck, faith in the people maintaining the roads, faith in your concentration, and most importantly faith that God is in control. All of these had me thinking about other ways that God guides us in our walk of faith. So many times, we know that we are doing all that we can, things are chaotic, we’re scared, but we keep moving forward. We pray for guidance, protection, answers, and understanding; and all along the way, if we are looking, God is giving us small answers and reassurances. He does not always speak loudly, parting the seas or stopping the storm. Oftentimes we have to pay attention to our prayers and relationship to see the road markers He puts out.
So when your life is chaotic, you’re scared, and feel that everything is out of control, stay faithful, remain steadfast in prayer, and know that while God does not always give thundering answers, He always has road markers for you to follow.
Open Water
The wave splashed from the left cheek to the right, pausing long enough to flood my nose. A wave a centimeter higher than what I was used to, floating off the beach. Waves that lapped, splashed, and sprayed as I daydreamed of to do lists, vacation plans, and heady decisions like staying out longer, getting my snorkel gear on, or heading in to take a nap under the palm trees.
Waking from sleep, your senses don’t boot up all at once. When a tiny wave waterboards you however, your senses all come on line at the same time. I took a breath as a reflex, only to inhale salt water from the one centimeter imp’s bigger brother. Coughing and sputtering I moved my feet down and head up to cough deliberately and take a breath. Moving from float to upright, you start start treading water. At that point, the cold hit me like a spike of frozen steel was running from head to toe, expanding inside my body.
Treading water I looked around to get my bearings. Water as far as I could see. Spinning around towards the beach I’d expected to see the palm trees and surf line within a thirty second swim. Instead, I was confronted with Kaluakoi Point to the left and Sweetheart Rock to the right. I was outside Hulopo’e Bay in the open ocean. By my estimate, a mile out to sea, home to currents, waves, sharks, drowning, and bodies never recovered. The spike morphed into a claw, dropped another several degrees Kelvin, and began to rake my guts.
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the ocean. Actually, more of a love-fear relationship. I love everything about the ocean; calm surf and storm tossed waves, sand the consistency of confectioners’ sugar and rocky shores, palm trees and driftwood, fragrant Plumeria in the tropics and the earthy old ocean smell of a New England fishing village. I love it all.
I don’t know what gave birth to the fear. My dad taught me to dog paddle in the shallow end of a pool before I was school age. I took swimming classes during the summer when we weren’t on the gentle shallow beaches of Cape Cod. The only instance of fear I can recall was at summer camp. The entrance to the swim area at Camp Massapoag was an F shaped, floating dock. I was hanging onto the dock in the deep water, deep, that is, for a husky kid. I’d let my legs float up and down, lazing about when my feet broke the surface and I was dragged under. On my back, head suddenly underwater I was sliding beneath the dock. My seven year old imagination had me trapped under the dock, forever, probably drowned. The counselors wouldn’t even realize I was gone until the buses loaded at 3:30. Just then my Cub Scout training kicked in, I rolled over and swam out from under the dock, narrowly escaping a watery grave in clutches of Massapoag Pond.
Except for this one event, I have no reason to fear the ocean. Perhaps it’s just the understanding that adding water to a husky kid, chubby young man, or obese, out of shape adult could result in dead. At 55, with the epiphany that comes free of charge with open heart surgery, I decided to take care of this fear.
What is it, exactly, that I’m afraid of? The answer quite simply was downing. Shark attacks are dramatic but exceedingly rare, six to eight deaths every year. With a global population of 7.5 billion people, the odds of getting murdered by a shark are one in a billion. So the problem then is how do I not drown? Learn to swim in the ocean. What if I get tired? Float. OK, so my first step is to learn to float.
Over time I’ll lose weight and become a confident swimmer. Until then I’ll float with impunity. Floating on your back is not simply a matter of lying down in the water. You have to relax, let your feet float up as if they’re surfacing under a dock, allow your head to fall back like you’re being dragged under water, and allow the tension leave the rest of your body. Piece of cake if it weren’t for that seven year old at summer camp. I practiced, realizing that as women float their breasts pointing skyward are a testament to their success. For most men it’s their humble toes. The rising of mount lard belly from the depths showed that I was floating. So be it.
I practiced and practiced, getting used to water in my ears and around my nose and mouth. Gentle splashes across my face. Once you get past the shore break, you rise and fall with the swells and can start to relax. So relax I did, right to the point of dozing off and not realizing that the gentle swells deviously transported me out to sea.
After a minute or ten of treading water the claw changed back into a spike, and I reassessed the situation. Where the ocean hits Kaluakoi Point, water is forced through long extinct lava tubes to explode in geysers. The geysers were performing their show about a half mile in front of me. Sweetheart Rock and the unforgiving reefs bordering Shark Bay were a half mile to my right. The safety of the beach and the current that brought me to the very real prospect of drowning was a mile ahead.
With the swells and distance, no one would see me. Shouts for help would be drowned out by the waves crashing on the beach. Not that there were any lifeguards to help anyway. I put my head down, kicked slowly, and put the crawl in Australian Crawl. The distance between myself and the kid sliding under the docks at Camp Massapoag increased. And I made my first open water swim over the mile back to shore.
Waking from sleep, your senses don’t boot up all at once. When a tiny wave waterboards you however, your senses all come on line at the same time. I took a breath as a reflex, only to inhale salt water from the one centimeter imp’s bigger brother. Coughing and sputtering I moved my feet down and head up to cough deliberately and take a breath. Moving from float to upright, you start start treading water. At that point, the cold hit me like a spike of frozen steel was running from head to toe, expanding inside my body.
Treading water I looked around to get my bearings. Water as far as I could see. Spinning around towards the beach I’d expected to see the palm trees and surf line within a thirty second swim. Instead, I was confronted with Kaluakoi Point to the left and Sweetheart Rock to the right. I was outside Hulopo’e Bay in the open ocean. By my estimate, a mile out to sea, home to currents, waves, sharks, drowning, and bodies never recovered. The spike morphed into a claw, dropped another several degrees Kelvin, and began to rake my guts.
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with the ocean. Actually, more of a love-fear relationship. I love everything about the ocean; calm surf and storm tossed waves, sand the consistency of confectioners’ sugar and rocky shores, palm trees and driftwood, fragrant Plumeria in the tropics and the earthy old ocean smell of a New England fishing village. I love it all.
I don’t know what gave birth to the fear. My dad taught me to dog paddle in the shallow end of a pool before I was school age. I took swimming classes during the summer when we weren’t on the gentle shallow beaches of Cape Cod. The only instance of fear I can recall was at summer camp. The entrance to the swim area at Camp Massapoag was an F shaped, floating dock. I was hanging onto the dock in the deep water, deep, that is, for a husky kid. I’d let my legs float up and down, lazing about when my feet broke the surface and I was dragged under. On my back, head suddenly underwater I was sliding beneath the dock. My seven year old imagination had me trapped under the dock, forever, probably drowned. The counselors wouldn’t even realize I was gone until the buses loaded at 3:30. Just then my Cub Scout training kicked in, I rolled over and swam out from under the dock, narrowly escaping a watery grave in clutches of Massapoag Pond.
Except for this one event, I have no reason to fear the ocean. Perhaps it’s just the understanding that adding water to a husky kid, chubby young man, or obese, out of shape adult could result in dead. At 55, with the epiphany that comes free of charge with open heart surgery, I decided to take care of this fear.
What is it, exactly, that I’m afraid of? The answer quite simply was downing. Shark attacks are dramatic but exceedingly rare, six to eight deaths every year. With a global population of 7.5 billion people, the odds of getting murdered by a shark are one in a billion. So the problem then is how do I not drown? Learn to swim in the ocean. What if I get tired? Float. OK, so my first step is to learn to float.
Over time I’ll lose weight and become a confident swimmer. Until then I’ll float with impunity. Floating on your back is not simply a matter of lying down in the water. You have to relax, let your feet float up as if they’re surfacing under a dock, allow your head to fall back like you’re being dragged under water, and allow the tension leave the rest of your body. Piece of cake if it weren’t for that seven year old at summer camp. I practiced, realizing that as women float their breasts pointing skyward are a testament to their success. For most men it’s their humble toes. The rising of mount lard belly from the depths showed that I was floating. So be it.
I practiced and practiced, getting used to water in my ears and around my nose and mouth. Gentle splashes across my face. Once you get past the shore break, you rise and fall with the swells and can start to relax. So relax I did, right to the point of dozing off and not realizing that the gentle swells deviously transported me out to sea.
After a minute or ten of treading water the claw changed back into a spike, and I reassessed the situation. Where the ocean hits Kaluakoi Point, water is forced through long extinct lava tubes to explode in geysers. The geysers were performing their show about a half mile in front of me. Sweetheart Rock and the unforgiving reefs bordering Shark Bay were a half mile to my right. The safety of the beach and the current that brought me to the very real prospect of drowning was a mile ahead.
With the swells and distance, no one would see me. Shouts for help would be drowned out by the waves crashing on the beach. Not that there were any lifeguards to help anyway. I put my head down, kicked slowly, and put the crawl in Australian Crawl. The distance between myself and the kid sliding under the docks at Camp Massapoag increased. And I made my first open water swim over the mile back to shore.
Beachcombing for Dreams
Lanai is a small island, only 140 square miles and eighteen from end to end. It lies nine miles west of Maui and five miles south of Molokai, all of which were part of the same volcanic eruption before time. Between Lanai, Maui and Molokai is the shallow ʻAuʻau channel. Ocean currents from the east of Maui accelerate through the channel, depositing all manner of debris along the east coast of Lanai.
Lanai is sleepy with two resorts and a hotel supporting the bulk of the economy. Originally the Dole Pineapple plantation, most of the 3,000 residents work for the resorts or Larry Ellison, the multi-billionaire who owns the island. With no traffic lights, a 20 mph speed limit and easy-going Aloha spirit, the island is beyond quiet. Picture a tropical Mayberry and give it Ambien.
On this relaxing afternoon, I drove Keomuku Road over Mount Lana’ihale to the east coast of the island. The pavement ends here, and like many roads outside the town or resorts requires a four-wheel drive vehicle. Not all-wheel drive, not a Subaru. Legitimate, Jeep Class, high clearance four-wheel drive with intentional tires. One to two foot deep ruts punctuates the road. These byways are either sand, dirt or mud, depending on the wind and the weather. A 1995 Toyota Camry does not qualify for non-pavement activities on the island, so I parked at the end of the pavement, donned my backpack and headed out on a walking adventure.
Turn right and you’ll end up at the abandoned Club Lanai, a once beautiful resort best accessed by boat. Now it’s a seven mile one way trip on the Jeep road. Going left a couple of miles you arrive at Shipwreck Beach. Venturing out you’re surrounded by a canopy of Kiawe trees, a pleasant looking, shade producing species with thorns that could be used in a knife fight. Hawaii has a unique relationship with abandoned vehicles. It’s not uncommon to be driving down the road and see a car with a giant “AV” marked on it. After a certain amount of time, the police will cast that Scarlet Letter on the vehicle. What happens after that is a mystery because the vehicle will sit there until it’s reclaimed by the jungle. Asking around, no one can recall when one of these was actually removed from the blight register. The road to Shipwreck Beach is host to any number of these.
A few hundred yards in, there’s a cut off to the beach. This trail runs through an abandoned yard, host to a couple of small boats in need of repair on trailers with flat tires and the remains of what was once a shed or shelter. The setting with shade trees and the former dreams of boats is peppered with hoof prints of the local Axis deer. At the far end of this yard the thorny brush closes in as nature’s warning sign. On the side of the blocked trail is the skeleton of a deer embedded in the sand. An explorer’s journey is nothing if not intrepid, so moving out and around, I came to the far side of the brambles where the trail continued to the ocean.
Climbing the dunes you’re struck by a warm breeze and the clean scent of the ocean. Cresting the sand and grass the view of Maui and Molokai is worthy of a travel brochure, as long as you ignore the debris covered foreground. Enough driftwood lines the shore to construct a village for the Swiss Family Robinson, all of Gilligan’s friends, Ben Gunn, and Wilson. Weathered branches, palm fronds, lumber that was stolen by a storm, and huge timbers are in Davy Jones’ Building Center. You can imagine tying them together with the remnants of fishing nets that are interwoven on the beach.
Beachcombing along the two miles from the path to Shipwreck Beach, other discards from society litter the shore. You can’t help but wonder how some of them arrived on this deserted stretch of beach. What abandoned dreams, adventures, and mishaps supplied these offerings? Wine, beer and liquor bottles could have been cast into the sea once they’d served their purpose. But what of propane tanks, large and small? How did the sea inherit and then discard over a dozen ice chests? You can understand them not having lids. But why were there no lids on the beach? How does a backpack sprayer end up a dozen miles from the closest town?
Navigating the driftwood and discards of society, I came upon the first shipwreck. A faded yellow and blue ketch that was once someone’s dream of sailing the Pacific. Now, lying on its side, keel open, masts gone and nothing left except the hull and a stainless steel sink in the galley. Perhaps the owners had insurance to compensate for the monetary loss. But what of the dream? The time spent outfitting, planning, provisioning, and envisioning a future on the open sea. Is there compensation for that? At least the trailered boats at the beach cut off were waiting to be made whole and used.
For over an hour, I had been alone with my thoughts and beachcombing. Not a soul in sight. Rounding a point marked by an entire driftwood tree, I came upon a middle-aged lady with over-tanned skin, clad in a black bikini, at least one size too small. She was on her hands and knees, Bud Light can in one hand and the other sifting through the sand for shells that weren’t there, carrying on a conversation with no one. What dreams compelled her younger self were now drowned in a haze of alcohol? We exchanged a brief greeting, but her attention was on unseen mysteries in the sand.
Continuing the last couple of hundred yards I received a gift. On the rise of a grassy dune, someone had set up a rattan armchair, complete with cushion, facing the ocean. The weather had been fair, so the cushion was dry. The chair, sitting on a piece of carpet was a reward for the journey. Those who take the Jeep road to Shipwreck beach would come to the ocean a half-mile farther down the shore. For those intrepid beachcombers, someone with a dream of quiet afternoons and unmatched vistas had set out a place of rest. Sitting in the chair with a water bottle in hand, I looked out over a beach festooned only with driftwood. No coolers, bottles, or empty oil cans. The reef and ocean painted the foreground of an unobstructed view of Molokai with its five thousand foot volcanic summit brushing the clouds.
We travel through life leaving evidence of our dreams. As we move along our path, we avoid the abandoned coolers others have left and the nets that have broken off. But we leave our own bottles, broken surfboards and sometimes shipwrecks. In the end, we need to remember to stop and smell the roses. Or at least, relax in a chair on the beach, taking time to appreciate our place in a tropical wonderland.
Lanai is sleepy with two resorts and a hotel supporting the bulk of the economy. Originally the Dole Pineapple plantation, most of the 3,000 residents work for the resorts or Larry Ellison, the multi-billionaire who owns the island. With no traffic lights, a 20 mph speed limit and easy-going Aloha spirit, the island is beyond quiet. Picture a tropical Mayberry and give it Ambien.
On this relaxing afternoon, I drove Keomuku Road over Mount Lana’ihale to the east coast of the island. The pavement ends here, and like many roads outside the town or resorts requires a four-wheel drive vehicle. Not all-wheel drive, not a Subaru. Legitimate, Jeep Class, high clearance four-wheel drive with intentional tires. One to two foot deep ruts punctuates the road. These byways are either sand, dirt or mud, depending on the wind and the weather. A 1995 Toyota Camry does not qualify for non-pavement activities on the island, so I parked at the end of the pavement, donned my backpack and headed out on a walking adventure.
Turn right and you’ll end up at the abandoned Club Lanai, a once beautiful resort best accessed by boat. Now it’s a seven mile one way trip on the Jeep road. Going left a couple of miles you arrive at Shipwreck Beach. Venturing out you’re surrounded by a canopy of Kiawe trees, a pleasant looking, shade producing species with thorns that could be used in a knife fight. Hawaii has a unique relationship with abandoned vehicles. It’s not uncommon to be driving down the road and see a car with a giant “AV” marked on it. After a certain amount of time, the police will cast that Scarlet Letter on the vehicle. What happens after that is a mystery because the vehicle will sit there until it’s reclaimed by the jungle. Asking around, no one can recall when one of these was actually removed from the blight register. The road to Shipwreck Beach is host to any number of these.
A few hundred yards in, there’s a cut off to the beach. This trail runs through an abandoned yard, host to a couple of small boats in need of repair on trailers with flat tires and the remains of what was once a shed or shelter. The setting with shade trees and the former dreams of boats is peppered with hoof prints of the local Axis deer. At the far end of this yard the thorny brush closes in as nature’s warning sign. On the side of the blocked trail is the skeleton of a deer embedded in the sand. An explorer’s journey is nothing if not intrepid, so moving out and around, I came to the far side of the brambles where the trail continued to the ocean.
Climbing the dunes you’re struck by a warm breeze and the clean scent of the ocean. Cresting the sand and grass the view of Maui and Molokai is worthy of a travel brochure, as long as you ignore the debris covered foreground. Enough driftwood lines the shore to construct a village for the Swiss Family Robinson, all of Gilligan’s friends, Ben Gunn, and Wilson. Weathered branches, palm fronds, lumber that was stolen by a storm, and huge timbers are in Davy Jones’ Building Center. You can imagine tying them together with the remnants of fishing nets that are interwoven on the beach.
Beachcombing along the two miles from the path to Shipwreck Beach, other discards from society litter the shore. You can’t help but wonder how some of them arrived on this deserted stretch of beach. What abandoned dreams, adventures, and mishaps supplied these offerings? Wine, beer and liquor bottles could have been cast into the sea once they’d served their purpose. But what of propane tanks, large and small? How did the sea inherit and then discard over a dozen ice chests? You can understand them not having lids. But why were there no lids on the beach? How does a backpack sprayer end up a dozen miles from the closest town?
Navigating the driftwood and discards of society, I came upon the first shipwreck. A faded yellow and blue ketch that was once someone’s dream of sailing the Pacific. Now, lying on its side, keel open, masts gone and nothing left except the hull and a stainless steel sink in the galley. Perhaps the owners had insurance to compensate for the monetary loss. But what of the dream? The time spent outfitting, planning, provisioning, and envisioning a future on the open sea. Is there compensation for that? At least the trailered boats at the beach cut off were waiting to be made whole and used.
For over an hour, I had been alone with my thoughts and beachcombing. Not a soul in sight. Rounding a point marked by an entire driftwood tree, I came upon a middle-aged lady with over-tanned skin, clad in a black bikini, at least one size too small. She was on her hands and knees, Bud Light can in one hand and the other sifting through the sand for shells that weren’t there, carrying on a conversation with no one. What dreams compelled her younger self were now drowned in a haze of alcohol? We exchanged a brief greeting, but her attention was on unseen mysteries in the sand.
Continuing the last couple of hundred yards I received a gift. On the rise of a grassy dune, someone had set up a rattan armchair, complete with cushion, facing the ocean. The weather had been fair, so the cushion was dry. The chair, sitting on a piece of carpet was a reward for the journey. Those who take the Jeep road to Shipwreck beach would come to the ocean a half-mile farther down the shore. For those intrepid beachcombers, someone with a dream of quiet afternoons and unmatched vistas had set out a place of rest. Sitting in the chair with a water bottle in hand, I looked out over a beach festooned only with driftwood. No coolers, bottles, or empty oil cans. The reef and ocean painted the foreground of an unobstructed view of Molokai with its five thousand foot volcanic summit brushing the clouds.
We travel through life leaving evidence of our dreams. As we move along our path, we avoid the abandoned coolers others have left and the nets that have broken off. But we leave our own bottles, broken surfboards and sometimes shipwrecks. In the end, we need to remember to stop and smell the roses. Or at least, relax in a chair on the beach, taking time to appreciate our place in a tropical wonderland.
Juke Boxes
Kids today have lost the life-lessons taught by the jukebox. Crosley, Wurlitzer, and Rock-ola. All offering the promise of your favorite music. While certainly for entertainment, the jukebox taught me about life.
When I was young, songs were ten cents each, or three for a quarter. Later it became a quarter a song or five for a dollar. At fifty cents a song, I stopped spending my money; the value proposition wasn’t there. I learned about getting more when you bought in larger quantities. How to make sure my quarter or dollar, often from my folks, had to be spent on carefully selected songs. After all, if you only have five songs to pick, split with your sister, you had to be careful which of the 100 to 140 songs you were going to choose. Johnny Horton was usually out, but the Beatles, Beach Boys, Santana, Rolling Stones, Elton John; and if mom and dad weren’t paying too much attention, The Who, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin were all fair game.
Mr. Wurlitzer also taught me about patience and hope. If the place was too busy, you might not even hear the songs you bought with your hard-earned or begged money. First come, first served, and who knows how many songs the guy in the double-denim actually picked. So you wait, trying to remember which songs you chose, and in what order. Once they started playing, we could usually wait until they were all done. But if they hadn’t started by the time we finished the pizza, oh well. Maybe next time. Or maybe I’ll just put my quarters in the pinball machine.
These magical music machines lived in two places, pizza parlors, and diners. The pizza parlor had the big one in the back. If the joint’s owner cared, you’d have some new songs in there. If not, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, Patsy Cline, and Johnny Cash were waiting to ruin your meal. Diners were another treat all-together. Your patience was tested as you flipped the song list back and forth at your table. Playing songs from the table was a risky proposition because you had no way of knowing how many people had songs queued up, and there was never anything new. More like playing a slot machine as compared to blackjack. There was also the risk of family discord at the table as you fought with your brother and sister over the song menu. Then you not only wouldn’t get to pick any songs, you couldn’t even touch the jukebox anymore. And rarely was there anything new. Just the classics, crooners, and too much country and western. More often than not, you’d only pick one or two songs, limiting the downside of no songs. But you could still fight over the song lists.
Today, we have fast-food, family restaurants, and cell phones. No more communal entertainment and life lessons. In some bars, you can still find a jukebox, and while it is the same size, your choices are now hundreds or thousands of songs, all digital and a dollar apiece. Worse, it’s shut off on Wednesday and Thursday for the horror that is karaoke. The magic of seeing a carousel of 45’s turn, the arm pick out your record and the needle come to rest as the song, your song, played is gone. Kids no longer learn about budgeting, value propositions, choices, uncertain outcomes, and the exciting win when the stars aligned and Crocodile Rock rang out of the Hi-Fidelity stereo speakers as hot pepperoni pizza was served onto paper plates with a pitcher of Tab to go around.
Copyright © 2019 David Barton
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