The Only Good Pet . . .

Warning: Portions of the following post contain animal stories that may be disturbing to some readers.

Earlier this week we were out on one of the first very nice spring days doing a driving test and I noticed in a 2 block area 5 different people walking their dog or dogs during the residential portion of our route. I asked Jose if he had a dog. “No”. “Do you own a cat?” “No”. “How about a rabbit or a guinea pig?” “Nope”. “No pets? Not even a goldfish?” “No”.

I was going to remark that I too never had much use for those stinking little animals when a little voice in my head told me to be quite. Just then Jose's mother remarks from the back seat; “Jose's dog died last year.” Whew! Thank you Bob for finally knowing when to shut up.

Several years ago I was giving a road test for a second time to Josephina, a short Philippine lady, and we came to the time where I ask the question; “If you have to drive off the side of the road and hit something, what would be the safest thing to hit?” The correct answer is to hit something soft. Now if a person doesn't understand the question then we are allowed to rephrase it. I had a little fun with this a couple of weeks earlier when I rephrased it to a sweet, innocent looking 16 year old girl using the example I was to give Josephina. It went well then so I tried it again.

“If you had to choose to hit with your vehicle either a great big elephant or a cute little puppy, what would be the best choice?”

Josephina answers; “Sir, (sniff sniff), I would heet (sniff sniff) the cute – little – poo pee.” Tears started to flow out of her eyes. She then choked out; “My cute little poo pee (sob sob) was heet by a car.” I felt instantly awful and said; “I'm sorry. It was wrong for me to joke like that.” Josephina replies; “Sir, my Cambodian lady friend gave me that poo pee and said, 'You don't have a daughter. THIS will be you daughter.” And now really crying she whispered the words; “And she was my cute – little- daughter.”

I then heard the rest of her sad dog story including; “The neighbor dog once bit my poo pee on the leg. I call police.” Each additional part of her story found me looking for somewhere in that front seat to hide. Eventually she calmed down and ended up passing the test. Josephine grabs both of my hands. “I have big fight with husband this morning. Thank you.” It was several years before I dared use the puppy and elephant example again.

My experience has never been too good with animals. I don't think either of my parents had pets as children. One day when I was young they brought home a puppy, evidently from a roadside vendor because the dog bit everyone in sight. That experiment lasted only a couple of days. They did take us to Deer Park one time and that is about the extent of my animal education.

I married a woman who was also pet deprived. Jackie's dad had a dog once but she remembers very little of it. The only other animal that graced their lives was a little hatchling that Jackie's sister Jane brought home from school. It turned out to be a rooster who became very territorial. I was dating Jackie at the time and when I, or anyone for that matter, would drive up and park in the front of the house the rooster would come tearing out from the garage and start furiously pecking at our legs. Imagine having to shut off the car engine and letting the vehicle role the last thirty yards to a stop, gently opening the car door and then sprinting to the front door of the house.

Eventually Jackie had enough and she told her younger brother Jim to take care of the matter, anyway he thought best. The rooster ended up with 20 BB's in it's little ornery brain. We are not sure if it was the BB's or the multiple stabs from the pitch fork that killed that bird but we were finally free. When Jane wondered later where the rooster was Jackie said the creature was so dumb it must have had an accident.

Jackie and I never blessed our children with any dogs or cats. She did get Ceci and Carrie a guinea pig. That lasted about two weeks before it disappeared. She told the girls that fluffy wasn't very happy here so she took it to “the nature center.” They of course assumed it was the nature center they had toured as pre-girl scout brownies.

And speaking of brownies Jackie once took the little troop of girls to Tusinks Farm where there were a lot of horses and well as the pony rides that all the kids loved. Ceci spotted one large horse walking by, looked underneath and spotted it in all his glory. “MOM! What's THAT!”  Glad we didn't have phones that took pictures back then.

 

Five Loaves And Two Fishes

"Now the Passover, the feast of the Jews, was at hand. Jesus therefore lifting up His eyes, and seeing that a great multitude was coming to Him, said to Philip; 'Where are we to buy bread, that these may eat?'" (John 6:4-5)


As we enter into Holy week I thought I would share with you a story of an earlier Passover week. The context is that it was at the beginning of the feast of Passover and a great number of people were following Jesus because He was doing miracles and healing the sick. They were now away from home and were getting hungry.  Andrew finds a boy with five barley loaves and two fish and Jesus blesses this food and distributes it to the multitude. Everyone eats as much as they want and twelve baskets full of leftover fragments were gathered. 

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In a sense here is Jesus, who will become the true Passover Lamb for all when He dies on the cross, now sharing a meal during Passover time with 5000 representing the Jewish nation. Understand that in Jewish tradition a chair is left empty at the table during the Passover meal.  This is for Elijah, a great prophet of the past who was taken up to Heaven alive in a chariot of fire and was prophesied to one day return to the Jewish people. He would either proceed, or be, the Prophet Messiah who would deliver the Jewish people from their oppressors. The multitude could not yet understand Jesus as the Passover Lamb but the sign of the multiplication of loaves and fishes does lead them to believe that He is this promised Prophet and they want to seize Jesus and make Him their king.

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Jesus escapes to the mountains alone and later that night walks on the water to the boat of His disciples and arrives at the other side of the Sea of Galilee. The multitude find Him there the next day and Jesus tells them; "you seek Me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate of the loaves, and were filled. Do not work for the food which perishes, but for the food which endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man shall give to you." The people ask Jesus to tell them what the works of God are, and He replies; "This is the work of God, that you believe in Him whom He has sent."

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The people have seen Jesus heal the sick and feed the multitude. Their theology permits them to comprehend Jesus as a Prophet in the vein of Moses or Elijah but not as God come in the flesh. So they inform Jesus that Moses gave the nation bread out of heaven (the manna) to eat, that this was a sign that Moses was from God, and that Jesus should confirm to them that because of the sign of the multiplication of loaves He too was the Prophet that would deliver them.
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Jesus answers them; "it is not Moses who has given you bread out of heaven, but it is My Father who gives you the true bread out of heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down out of heaven, and gives life to the world . . . I am the bread of life; he who come to Me shall not hunger, and he who believes in Me shall never thirst." 

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Jesus was telling the people that there was something much greater than Moses or Elijah here. Moses prayed to God in the wilderness after the people grumbled about being hungry and God provided manna as food everyday until they entered the promised land. The Son of the Father God that Moses prayed to was now in their midst.  He was more than a healer, provider, and political deliverer. In Him was eternal life. 

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"No man has seen the Father, except the One who is from God . . . he who believes has eternal life. I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down out of heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die . . the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is My flesh . . He who eats My flesh and drinks My blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day."
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God provided food for the people in the wilderness and yet death still came to their physical bodies. God now has provided Someone that would bring eternal life spiritually and which would physically lead to a resurrection on the last day uniting body with soul and spirit.  Jesus would give up His flesh on the cross for the sins of man. Our work, that effort we need to be justified before the Father, is simply to believe in Him whom He sent.

Jesus took five loaves and two little fishes and provided everything the people needed and much, much more.  Let him take your hand and lead you to a place where life is abundant, where joy overflows, where peace is unshaken.      

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"It is the Spirit who gives life, the flesh profits nothing; the words that I have spoken to you are spirit and are life." (John 6:63)

Put On A Happy Face

Both Jackie and I had to arise early for work this morning so last night when we were talking about what time to get up Jackie told me to wake her after I took my shower.  This I did.  It may help to know that my wife can stay up to all hours of the night without a problem but she has never been much of a early morning person.

I come into the bedroom fresh as a daisy after my morning wash up and softly say; "wake up Honey."  From Jackie I get something like "mumble jumble, mumble mumble" so I sing her this little tune:

"Good morning to you, good morning to you.  We're all in our places with bright shinning faces" to which Jackie responds;  "I'm getting up but I will NOT put on my happy face."

Jackie ended up with her happy face later this afternoon when she came back home and got to continue working on one of her sewing projects.  This time it is a mass production of little Dutch costumes that fit the American Girl dolls that most of our little granddaughters love.  I'm talking skirts, those blooming pants, scarfs, the classic Dutch caps, blouses and of course a bunch of little accessories.

There are patterns from Dutch regions such as Middelburg, Achterhoek, Volendam and the Isle of Markan.  Some are for girls and some are boy outfits that the girl dolls will wear, just like the famous Dutch dancers from my hometown, Holland, Michigan.  Looking at all the piles of outfits and various materials sitting on the work table makes me wonder if Jackie is outfitting a little army of Dutch dancers.  The piles sure brings back a lot of May memories of Tulip Time.

When I was in early grade school at St. Francis I would dress up Dutch and march in the Thursday parade with my classmates while holding a long horizontal pole displaying the diamonds of Amsterdam.  The same props were used by subsequent classes for the next 50 years.  By 4th or 5th grade I graduated to decorating my bike with crape paper and sticking baseball cards in the spokes and riding the route, dressed up Dutch of course, while doing so.  I was cool Hans then. 

Other relatives fared better.  My girls while in band in middle school and high school marched in all the festival's parades.  My older brother dresses Dutch each year and pulls some of his little grandkids in a red wagon during the street scrubbing parade.  And my young blond girl cousins would just sit in the middle of a patch of beautiful tulips while wearing their Dutch costumes and collect dollars from the thousands of visiting senior citizen tourists.  I asked my mom if I could do that but she said it was a Vermont custom.

Just to continue the Dutch theme for a little longer, I did a road test yesterday for a college student from the Netherlands.  He is 6'10" tall and came over here to play hoops.  Unfortunately both ankles went bad.  He says that his teammates yell "dunk the ball" but he doesn't because it hurts to jump.  That now is my excuse. 

I asked him if young guys like him, because they all travel extensively through Europe, now consider themselves to be first Europeans and then as someone from their country.  "Definitely the Netherlands" was the answer.  "The European Union is falling apart."  That surprised me but then thinking about the recent bailouts of Greece and Ireland and the financial troubles in Spain, Italy and others I could understand. 

He told me his parents who are prominent journalists in Amsterdam actually phoned him after this weeks EU's attempt to confiscate bank funds in Cypress and asked if he wanted them to remove his money from their Dutch bank.  That's how worried his parents are getting.  He put on his happy face and told them no.  "I'm just a college student.  I don't have much money to worry about."

Another test I had test this week was with a woman who was 50 years old, about 5 foot tall and was missing all of her front teeth.  She wasn't Dutch but she was from Loose E Anna.  When I told her I could hear a little Cajun in her accent Mary told me that she was part Indian.  I asked; "American Indian or Indian from India".  Mary replies; "Indian Indian. Part Cherokee, part Chippewa."

When I tell Mary that she passes she puts both arms over the steering wheel, rotates them and does her little happy dance.  She tells me showing her big no tooth smile that she is going to save her special happy dance to show her husband.  "I would show it to youss but youss is a married man" she laughs.  "That I am" I assure her.

Mary's happy face was big but not as big as the one I see on Jackie when she is sewing those little Dutch outfits.

Remembering St. Francis

The Argentine cardinal's choice of his name for pope reminds me of a story about a humble man named Joe. Every time the man had a simple decision to make another option would have been better.

Let's say for example that Joe was at a bank, store or fast food restaurant and he had to choose what line to stand in. If he picked the shortest line at the bank then the little old lady in front of him wanted to get her change in multiple denominations, would not have signed her check and was still working with the patient  cashier 15 minutes later. If he picked the express lane at a store someone in front would have a clothing item without a tag requiring the clerk to get on the intercom and yell “Help needed for checkout 4”. And really no matter what line he picked at Burger King he would end up with their special needs trainee who would be told by the young girl patiently helping her; “Now press erase on this button, no, this button, there you've got it, and now press value meal number 7, yes it's over here. One space over Honey. OK, let's start again.”

Since this was the pattern for his whole life it began to wear Joe down and he became depressed. He thought that it would be great if he could take a vacation to some far away place, just sit in the sun and get away from the day to day decisions that always would turn out so bad. The route Joe picked to drive to the airport had an accident ahead of him that made traffic come to a halt for 2 hours, causing him to miss his flight. He had a choice of leaving by the same airline the next morning or he could leave that night on a flight offered by a budget carrier.

Taking the night option Joe self selected a seat that looked like it would offer him the best option to lay back and get some sleep but just before the loading door closed a very big man who had obviously been drinking and was now getting quite nauseous came in and sat down next to Joe. The airplane takes off and about midnight it flies through a terrible thunder and lightening storm. First one engine goes out, then the second, then the third and finally the last. The airplane begins a shaky descent through the storm and the pilot gets on the intercom and advises the passengers that if they know how to pray then now would be a good time.

Joe begins to pray. “St. Francis, you are my patron saint. I just want to let you know that my life has been miserable up to this point. Nothing has gone right. I have never asked you for anything but now, please, I need your help.”

Just then a giant hand reaches into the clouds and grabs the falling airplane. A voice booms out; “Are you the one who prayed to St. Francis.”

“Yes, yes, that was me!” responds Joe.

“Would that be St. Francis de Sales or St. Francis of Assisi?”

This is of course what I was thinking after the new pope picked his papal moniker. Everyone assumed he was honoring the saint that preached to the little birds but I had grown up attending a church named after a guy named Francis who was educated by the Jesuits and who preached return to the Roman church to  Calvinists.  And there is also a third logical option. A priest by the name of Francis Xavier was one of the founders of the Jesuit order, the same order belonged to by the new Pope Francis.

I think it is important that we assign Roman numerals to differentiate between the possible choices. Is this Pope Francis I – Pope Francis II or Pope Francis III? Perhaps we should let historians of the future figure it out. Maybe he will combine aspects of all three and be Pope Francis IV or VI. The age of the guy might suggest I V. To be frank, we don't want a pope with any sixes affixed to his name.

Our church was named after St. Francis de Sales, as was the grade school I attended for 8 years. This was the church I was baptized from. This was the church in which basement Jackie and I helped lead prayer meetings in for many years. This was the church we left when it dawned on me that the Holy Spirit would never be welcome in the labyrinth of the Roman Church bureaucracy. But we had some good times and we did see a lot of changes there.

St. Francis de Sales always had a large Hispanic attendance and they would offer a mass each Sunday in Spanish. We once had an associate priest from a South American country who would give these fiery sermons and pull no punches. One Easter, upset that some people would only grace the church with their presence twice a year, he proclaimed; “Happy Easter! And since you're already here, Merry Christmas too!” He happened to be the priest officiating at our last service at St. Francis, giving a sermon on nuclear disarmament.

One time after we had left the church our daughter Missy, who was in college at the time, told us she was going with a friend of hers who was Hispanic to help that girl's ladies group make burritos in the basement of St. Francis for the upcoming Cinco de Mayo celebration. Jackie told Missy to take our food processor to help her cut up the cheddar cheese. Showing Missy how it was done she put a block of cheese into the processor, pressed the on button and “Twarpp”, there was a pile of shredded cheese.

Missy and her friend arrived at the church basement and all the older Hispanic ladies get out their hand shredding implements and began the four hour process of shredding and socializing. My daughter then plugs in the food processor, takes a few blocks of cheese and “twarpp, twarpp, twarpp”, has a massive pile of cheese in about a minute. Looking up pleased she notices the concerned look on all the other brown faces. Getting the hint Missy unplugs her machine. We would later joke about Missy almost being able to destroy centuries of Spanish culture in one afternoon until the food processor disarmament.

St. Francis of Assisi wrote a famous prayer that was later used as a basis for a beautiful hymn.  We used to sing this at St. Francis de Sales and it was one of our favorites at our home prayer meetings.  Picking this song was a choice where you couldn't go wrong.

Make me a channel of your peace:

Where there is hatred, let me bring your love,

Where there is injury, your pardon, Lord,

And where there's doubt true faith in you.

Make me a channel of your peace:

Where there's despair in life, let me bring hope,

Where there is darkness, only light,

And where there's sadness, ever joy.

O Master, grant that I may never seek

So much to be consoled as to console;

To be understood as to understand,

To be loved, as to love with all my soul!

Make me a channel of your peace:

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

In giving of ourselves that we receive,

And in dying that we are born to eternal life.

 

When Old Men

When Old Men

When old men dress in ancient robes

selected by tradition

and totter round the chapel poles

avoiding clear suspicion

They talk and whisper, wink and groan

consider each selection

the future sure from one their own

to lead a new direction

They pray the prayers as written down

in a language now forgotten

except by those who gather round

which makes it not so rotten

So finally a vote is cast

then later there is another

until consensus holds them fast

to choose their ancient brother

He humbly bows and takes their hands

and listens as they say

we will be loyal in all our lands

for you we'll always pray

And prayer my friends he will surely need

to chart a different course

away from the stagnant foul greed

that rides this Italian horse

To stem one continent's lack of belief

another's deep superstition

when silence enables sexual grief

while the world loses inhibitions

You will not change nor yield nor see

there is comfort in the tried and true

you'll pray for what will never be

tradition that is new

When old men dress in ancient robes

but dream of rushing wind

they wonder inside those wrinkled lobes

just how should I begin

The way is daunting but more is less

And not for us to conspire

To clear the forest of this mess

They will need the tongues of fire

Five Miuntes

Without very much prompting I learned in the first five minutes of our drive last week that Samantha has 3 children, ages 7, 2 and 8 months, that she had her tubes tied because “My gosh, I'm so young and I don't know how I could handle another”, that her grandmother who she was very close to died at age 65 of a totally unexpected massive stroke 22 weeks ago which lead her father, who has been in and out of prison most of his adult life and who currently lives in a house that she pointed out to me on our route, to ingest 79 sleeping pills in an unsuccessful attempt to take his life, that she has had her braces on and off for seven years because she can't have them on while she is pregnant and that she is a stay at home mom because her fiance has a good job as a crew chief at a local cement block company.

I learned all of this pretty much before you guys could tweet “Nice cup of Joe this morning”.

Yesterday I was reading a story about the prophet Elijah. Because of the wickedness of King Ahab Elijah said that there would be a drought in the land. He hid from Ahab on the east side of the Jordan near a brook with running water and was fed by ravens that God directed to bring him bread and meat both morning and night. When the brook dried up God sent Elijah to a certain town and as he was entering it's gates he met a woman who was gathering sticks. Elijah tells the woman to bring him a little water and to make him a small bread cake. The woman replies that she is a widow with a young son and that she only has enough flour and oil to make one final meal for them both. Then they would wait for death. She was picking up the sticks to cook it.

Then Elijah said to her, “Do not fear; go, do as you have said, but make me a little bread cake from it first and bring it out to me, and afterward you may make one for yourself and for your son. For thus says the Lord God of Israel, 'The bowl of flour shall not be exhausted, nor shall the jar of oil be empty, until the day that the Lord sends rain on the face of the earth.'” (I Kings 17: 13-14)

Imagine how difficult of a decision this is for the woman. A guy she just met is telling her to trust God by giving up the first portion of all she and her son have left for a promise she can't see or even hope for. She really only has a minute to make up her mind and tell Elijah she will do as he asks. The result of her trusting God is that for 3 ½ years The bowl of flour was not exhausted nor did the jar of oil become empty. Another benefit was that Elijah came to stay with them, blessing her household, and when her son became ill and died Elijah prayed and the son came back to life.

Sometimes God speaks to us and we only have a short time to answer. I wish I could tell you that you will have the rest of your life to think it over but apparently it doesn't work that way. Five minutes may tell your life story. God loves you. Trust Him.

Poppa Mia

Letter To The College Of Cardinals

Vatican City – Rome – Italy

Dear senior and august leaders of the Roman Catholic Church,

I regret to inform, as you begin your conclave to select the next Holy Father, that if by some miracle of God you decide to select me as the new Bishop of Rome then I will have to respectfully decline this most elevated position and responsibility.

It was whispered to me that I might be under your consideration because the confirmation name I chose by divine coincidence happened to be Peter. Most are now all too familiar with the prophecy of the Irish St. Malachy who correctly identified 111 popes that would come after him, the 111^th being the now Pope Emeritus Benedict and the 112^th and last who would be identified by the clue “Peter the Roman”. Since most of you distinguished cardinals, even the ones from the backwaters of this world, are acquainted with the art and statues depicting the ancient Roman rulers you can by a glance look at my profile, the solid nose, the prominent chin, the fading hairline, and see quite a resemblance between me and those Roman rulers. Exalted ones, name and looks are not everything!

By now you may have heard that I know a smattering of Spanish and that admittedly has deep implications to those that want to appeal to the largest population segment of the Church. One of your own, a Brazilian, has been widely discussed as a front runner in the press as well as in the secret meetings of the Italian power brokers. Even though I could get by on a trip to South America with my few words and exaggerated hand gestures you must see that a native who also speaks Italian would be a much better fit.

Speculation also is that the new Pontiff might come from the fastest growing area of the Roman church, Africa.  But we all know that there are patterns.  After the Italians finally lost their stranglehold the papacy went north east to Poland and then west to Germany.  Since the Netherlands and France would logically be next my Dutch and French heritage is impressive.  Your luck with French popes hasn't been too good but imagine a Dutch pope.  I could grow a big white beard, put on vestments, place a miter on my head, take hold of a staff and then grab my big sack of presents . . . oh wait, wrong image.  Sinter Poppa.  

As you all know so much better than I, the requirements for the next Pope do not specify that the chosen man be selected from your college of cardinals. It seems that even a married man would qualify as long as his wife became a nun and was put away in a convent. I mentioned this to Jackie and she asked; “Could I take my elliptical?” and I answered; “Honey, I don't think they even have electricity there.” Yes, I am a simple man . . . but my wife has needs.

And then there is the matter of how I would have to dress. Red slippers! Seriously! Maybe we could start some new traditions. How about a papal brass belt buckle that says “Rock On”. It could even be in Latin.

Speaking of Latin, I have a little problem there. My mother made me take Latin when I was in 9^th grade at EE Fell Junior High because she thought it would provide a good foundation for everything else in the English world. The first semester I got a C- and the second came in at D-. The only phrase I can remember is Vini, Vidi, Visa – I came, I saw, I charged it. Sometime during the summer before my 10^th grade year my mother got a phone call from Mrs. Damson who had been my teacher. She asked; “Is Robert planning on taking Latin this coming year?” When my mom said no Mrs. Damson remarked; “Oh good!” and promptly hung up. 

How would my children and grandchildren address me?  Dad?  Poppa?  Grand Poppa?  Your Holyness?  Say, that might work.  Your Most Holy Rolly Pollyness?  Even better.  I suppose some of the Italian popes centuries ago had this figured out so we could go by tradition here.  I do worry about finding a seat at my young grandkid's very crowded programs at Zeeland Christian or Ada Vista.  "Hey buddy, lose that miter.  You make a better door than a window."  Yea, it would be a problem.

I also worry about the financial future of the Church. When my parents visited Rome years ago my mother, seeing that now at age 24 years I had become in her mind newly religious, brought me back a little black plastic rosary. Handing it to me she only spoke this one phrase; “Here, the Pope blessed it.” That was so sweet. However in my mind I saw the old guy riding a golf cart through a large warehouse, waving his hand at rack after rack of holy cards and other religious items. Oh well, I'd probably just upset the proverbial apple cart. My blessings would be free. And so would a whole lot of other things.

Anyway, thank you for your consideration,

Yours in Christ Jesus,

Robert Thomas Peter LaBarge

Real Men Wear Panty Hose

This last week brought in quite a varied catch of unusual clients, stories and situations.

Weirdest Advice:

Michelle, being part American Indian, likes to celebrate that part of her heritage by doing a lot of outdoor activities. She asked me if I was the outdoor type and I responded; “Not really. But my work requires me to be outside quite a bit so I usually overdress to stay warm this time of year – long underwear, flannel jeans, scarf and hat.”

“Have you thought of wearing panty hose?” she asks. “They say it helps keep you really warm.” I put my hand up and say “Stop. Do I look like the type of person who would wear panty hose? I can't really see myself doing that.”

Michelle however understands the tried and true folk remedies of the Native American and tells me about her friend who works on oil rigs in Oklahoma. “The wind blows really hard there and it can get quite cold. The guys don't publicize it but they all wear pantyhose when working in the cold.” She actually suggested, because we were having a bit of fun with this, that we stop at Walgreen's and she would help me pick out a pair, to which I replied; “Ah, No.”

Most Unusual Tidbit of Information

Alex, a tattoo artist, came complete with a goatee, ponytail and large ring in his nose. He told me that the typical person who comes in for him to sink the ink was between the ages of 18 and 28. I asked him who was the oldest person he had worked on and his face lit up as he recalled a 97 year old man. “All of us tattoo guys like to brag about who had the oldest client and I've got them beat by a mile.”

Alex told me that one time when the guy was married he had a girlfriend on the side. The wife found out and said to pick between the two. The guy picked his wife, dumped his girlfriend and thought that was that. He found out after his wife died that his old girlfriend had a daughter that was from him and he wanted to be tattooed with the daughter's name.

One problem here was that at 97 a person's skin is very thin and the old guy would bruise with every needle prick. He must have been a tough bird because he went through with it.

First Time In This Type of Vehicle

A week before he is scheduled to come in Stan phones the office to inquire if he can take the test in a taxi. Our secretary Linda asks me and I say; “I don't see why not, as long as he has permission from the owner.” (We cannot do the test in a vehicle with any markings that indicate driver training because the State does not want other drivers to react differently than normal and most rental cars are not allowed because the contracts specify they must be driven by a licensed driver). I ask Jackie when I get home if she thinks a taxi would be a problem and she replies; “I don't see why not”.

Test day shows up and Stan drives up in a bright and shinning Yellow Cab. It turns out that Stan, who looks just like one of those guys from the old SNL skit who would repeat over and over, “Da Bears!”, had driven a cab for 30 years and then worked for Yellow Cab as a dispatcher for a few years more. He knew the business owner very well.

“Still working Stan?” I ask. “Nah, I'm on mental disability. I loved dispatching but it eventually drove me batty.” Stan drives like a taxi driver – great traffic checks, loose on the rules with everything else, and barely passes.

If you were thinking of driving a cab for a living you should talk to Stan. Said he wanted to write a book called 100 Reasons Not To Drive A Taxi. He was stabbed 3 times, jumped out of the cab at 50 miles an hour when the passenger put a shotgun to his head (at least that's what he told me), and had a guy wrap a belt around his neck which caused him to pass out and drive into a building. On the other hand he once had a cruise ship captain get stinking drunk and then proceeded to toss him $100 dollar bills about every 10 minutes. “Got him for $9,800 that night. Felt a little bad about it.” I asked Stan if he took the next day off. “Nah, I took the next week off.”

How To Earn a Complaint

Sara did not seem to be able to pay attention to any of my instructions during the basic skills, although she did pass that part. When we were out driving she barely stopped at a stop sign in a residential area on a left hand turn, did not yield at the same intersection for a vehicle opposite us who had arrived at their stop sign several seconds earlier, and then did not even try to stop for a left turn at a blinking red light.

She rambled on non stop saying things such as, “I really need to pass this test. I had a fight with my sister just before we came and she kicked me in the eye. Why would she have a fight with me when she knew I need to pass this test?” When we got back to our parking lot early and she knew something was up because we did not drive on the freeway which she was expecting she got upset. I had Sara park the car and explained her two automatic failure maneuvers. When I tried to explain what other improvements she could make so that her odds would be better next time she just yelled at me, saying the same thing I've heard many times; “So I just wasted my $50 dollars!” All this time I am calm, respectful and pleasant, even when we part – even when I hear she called the office to complain.

We Talked Downton Abbey

Penny is a cute little co-ed, direct from London, England who is attending a local university. She is one of eleven children whose parents had home schooled them and was loving her time here. I mentioned all my England connections - friend Margaret who was a native, Niece Susie and her husband Steve who are currently stationed there, and of course Monty Python and Benny Hill (she had never heard of Benny Hill!).

After talking a little about Downton Abbey I asked Penny if she noticed any class distinctions in England today. Maybe she misunderstood because she responded that they don't have racism in England like they do here. “The blacks in England don't have there own language. They talk and look just like me. They live in the same areas. One of my friends is black.” I suggested that maybe racism was more overt in England against other minority groups, such as the large Pakistani population.

I then asked Penny why her parents decided to home school them and she said that they lived in an area of London that had a lot of Pakistani. “Their schools are not very good” she assured me showing not a bit of class or race distinction in her young British mind.

Memory Walk

It was a regular occurrence for my father, beginning in his mid 60's, to sit down with a group at the break room of his business and entertain us with one of his wonderful stories. We began to worry when dad would repeat a story several minutes later. Often we could head it off at the pass but if he got going we would enjoy the tale once again. After all, the best part for us was never the story itself. It was sharing the enjoyment Bill had in telling it. Some days we would enjoy the same story several times.

My father had a disease that would be identified after he died in his 80's as “being consistent with Alzheimer's.” Seems you need to have an autopsy to tell for sure. Bill did have a buildup of plaques and tangles in his brain, things that inhibit the flow of chemical and electric processes and which are associated with Alzheimer's but the buildup was not as severe as in a classic case. He had undergone multiple traumas to his head playing football and crash landing several planes during WWII and maybe that also had something to do with it. There are various types of dementia and today the public tends to call them all the A word.

The progression of the disease for my father was slow and until very close to the end he managed to maintain his positive attitude and sense of humor, despite his physical and mental difficulties. This is rare for those with Alzheimer's. Would Bill get upset at things? You bet, but then throughout his entire life he had a short fuse, would blow sky high and then would be perfectly fine. No continuing anger, no resentments, he said his peace and let's go on. We might be walking on egg shells for awhile, but not dad.

Before this all flared up Bill got a personalized front license plate for his Mercedes that read; “SOB”. He would love it when people would ask what it meant. “Well, that's just me, sweet old Bill”. Dad would get himself a good laugh when he invariable got the same reply - “Um, I'm not sure that's what that really means.”

He would often tell me in his early years of understanding what he had; “Bob, you know the best thing about having Alzheimer's? You meet new people everyday!” My dad use to say that sometimes you just have to laugh because if you don't you will cry. I say that because Alzheimer's is rough. Mentally and physically everything reverses, mimicking the same stages as in growing. The adult becomes a child, becomes a toddler, becomes an infant and then life cannot sustain itself.

When I was in college and my dad and I would have a friendly discussion on matters such as the length of my hair he would tell me: “Right now you think I am so stupid, but just wait a few years and you will change your tune.” My dad was wrong there. I always thought he was the smartest man I ever knew and I had great respect for him; for his values, for the way he treated my mom and for what he accomplished. I loved him deeply. To go from being a child to being a parent for your parent is not easy. My dad had expressed it well when talking about his own mother who lived to be 97, the last 7 years in a nursing home. “She use to be such a proud woman. There is very little pride left in a nursing home.”

For the last 6 years of his life Bill was able to stay at a truly great place for managed care called Freedom Inn which is associated with a senior living center in Holland known as Freedom Village. My older brother and I lived in the same town and we and our families were able to visit dad quite often , as did my aunts and uncles. For a long time my brother Jet and wife Karen were able to take dad out to dinner every week. My other brother and two sisters live quite far away but they too often came to visit.

It is rare for someone to stay at Freedom Inn more than two years but Bill had years when he could ride his little electric cart, get outside accompanied by one of us or an aide and enjoy a beautiful day. As I said, his attitude remained quite positive until very near the end. The main thing that bothered him was when he would see someone being spoon fed. He just couldn't stand that.

This week Adam came to our company for a road test. He was a very rough looking character who had been in the Marines. His mother was 5'0 of pure Irish who would get you with her backhand if the front hand missed. “You never saw it coming” said Adam. His dad was a very tall man who studied furniture design at Kendal, hand made beautiful furniture and owned a construction company where Adam had worked with him and his brothers for many years. “If you couldn't handle an 80 pound board by yourself my father would say, “What's a matter. Need your Nancy skirt? Want to trade your steel toe boots for pumps?”

“At dinner he would say things like; 'Don't smack your lips. What do you think this is, a horse's trough?” I felt a connection with Adam because my dad would say the same things. I never really understood what “smacking your lips” actually meant and being afraid to ask I think I swallowed a lot of poorly chewed food. I asked Adam if he knew how the Irish in Chicago get to heaven. The answer – They get on the Dan Ryan, connect to the Kennedy, head to O'Hare and from there it's straight up.

Adam laughed and then mentioned that his father had died of Alzheimer's. When I said that my father died the same way tears began to stream down Adam's still rough looking face. After the test was over we talked some more. The disease for Adam's father had progressed very rapidly, causing death in 3 years.

Even though this was a few years ago it still was tearing him up and Adam was crying quite openly.  “This was a man who I admired more than anyone else and here he was, calling his wife 'momma.' Man, he peed on his leg! No one should have that happen. I thought, why is God punishing him? What did he do wrong? I went to see the priest a few times to talk about it but it still makes me angry.”

I tried to listen more than talk, not easy for me, and let him grieve with someone who could understand. I did tell Adam that in God's eternal clock a few years is nothing. The last three years do not define your father. Grieving is good, talking about it is good and he need not be ashamed of his tears. It turned out we had some other things in common as well but eventually my next customer came and we departed.

Few of us get to choose how we will leave this earthly plane. What we can control is coming to terms with eternity while we are here. In this case ignorance will not be bliss. It would be nice to go in the Rapture and nicer still if all of my family went with me.

I do like the option expressed in lyrics from the song ELIJAH by Rich Mullins; “When I leave I want to go out like Elijah, with a whirlwind to fuel my chariot of fire.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oh1Y-eIu99Q&playnext=1&list=PLB9260972575249E3&feature=results_video

Now that's the way to go.