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 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 language now forgotten

except by those who gather round

which makes it not so rotten

So finally a vote is cast

then later there's 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 our lands

for you we will always pray

And prayer my friends he'll surely need

to chart such a different course

away from stagnant foul greed

that rides this Italian horse

To stem a country's lack of belief

another's superstitions

to silence all sexual grief

while the world lost inhibitions

You will not change nor yield nor see

you'll keep the tried and true

you'll pray for what will never be

a tradition that is new

When old men dress in ancient robes

yet dream of a rushing wind

they wonder inside wrinkled lobes

just how should we now begin

The way is daunting - more is less

for us we can't conspire

to clear the chambers of this mess

They'll 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.

The Little Shop Next Door

One of our testing locations is at CenterPoint Mall.  Located down one of the CenterPoint aisles is a Michigan Secretary of State Super Center, a fancy way of saying that they are one of the few customer friendly offices of the state that has Saturday hours (until noon - yippee!).  The driver testing organization that I work for used to have a small kiosk located about 20 yards from the SOS Super Center where a secretary would sign up people for road tests or driver training.

Across the aisle from our kiosk was a little snack shop run by an Egyptian couple.  CenterPoint was not my regular location but often when I was scheduled there I would pay the snack shop a visit to pick up a healthy lunch;  a cold can of Mountain Dew and a bag of Doritos.  I should have posted a picture of the empty can and bag on FB labeled -  Tuesday lunch, no left overs - but it might make my cousin Gretel physically ill, healthy eater and food poster that she is.

During all the excitement a year and a half ago with the daily protests at Tahir Square I would often spot the owner reading all about the new developments there on his lap top.  No doubt, still having a lot of family and friends back home, each day was a mixture of both excitement and fear.  I would ask him how things were going there but we had only limited conversation.

Last year I did a road test for an Egyptian man who came in a very nice and expensive car.  He had a lot of things made for him in China and because I had been in a business that did a lot of importing we got talking about the ins and outs of that type of business.  The key to being successful in import is to have people in those countries that you can trust, who will find you the best suppliers, negotiate fair prices and who can take care of the inevitable problems that come with long distance relationships.

The Egyptian told me that there was a good sized Moslem minority in various areas in China and that he sponsored 4 men to attend university in Cairo for two years.  To attend a Moslem university in Egypt was an almost impossible dream for most Moslem families in China.  He ended up with locals who were very loyal and this had worked out quite well for him.  His problem now was his uncertainty about ever being able to go home again.

CenterPoint Mall underwent a major redo and lo and behold the little snack shop moved in next to us in the  quaint but rundown mall in Wyoming that we call home.  The last tennant was clothier Christopher Banks and now the Egyptian couple had a lot of extra space.  They filled this with rugs (of course), blankets (Justin Bieber looks twice as cute on an 8' by 12' scene, and a variety of other must have goods such as plastic guitairs in purple and pink and sleeping bags with pictures of whatever you can imagine visible underneath their plastic carrying cases.

Oh, did I mention 24" x 36" metal framed pictures sold for $29.95 each?  Like the sleeping bags the subject matter is quite varied.  One day I was walking past the store (I have not yet stepped inside) and saw three pictures displayed side by side by side.  I am not making this up.  The first picture had Robert DeNiro and was labeled "Scareface".  The second showed Marlon Brando and was labeled "The Godfather".  The third showed our current president and was labeled "Obama". 

Maybe they sold or perhaps someone pointed out the obvious but two days later only Scareface remained on display upfront.  Next to a sleeping bag with green elephants.  Next to a desert landscape.  Go figure.