Redneck Piano Mover

My Dad is a genius!

"Dad, I just bought a piano.  Can you help me move it with your truck, or your trailer, or one of the myriad of moving menagerie that you own?"

"We don't have brawn,"  he deadpanned.  "Let me think and I'll be over in a minute."

I returned to the garage sale site and patiently waited.

"My dad is coming."

"Just your dad?" the guy said.

"Yup, just my Dad."  I responded with complete confidence.    The guy is a product of a brighter age-- a guy who thinks the world needs whatever he thinks up next.  He is always the inventor, trying to do it better.  From backpacks, log splitters, diamond forging, to a better way to mold bronze, he has been there, built that and then tried to improve it.


We hear an engine laboring... what will it be, the ten-ton trailer he welded himself to move his heavy machinery?  Or the RV he rebuilt from his half-ton dump truck?  It could be the tool trailer he modeled from an old truck bed?  I could hardly wait.

And Voila!  Up he drives in Hogan. A 1972 International that still runs, and when it doesn't, it can still be fixed without computers.  

Dad lowered the bucket down, tipped the piano in, tied it down and drove through town.

Drove right to my back door, tipped it up and he, my son, my nephew, and weak little me rolled it in.

ThAT, GUY, is, AMAZing!






If only my son could reignite the inventor mind that has been dumbed out of him by the monotony of public school and my poor parenting practices which failed to inspire greatness.  I can only hope.

The world needs more inventive minds like my Dad's.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.     And when it does, I write

12-9-13

Naked at Church

I try to get to church early enough each week to take a deep breath and allow calm to enhance my spiritual experience.  I typically go to church by myself and because of that, I get the opportunity to exercise the spirit of my muse who asks, “Who needs me to sit with them today?”  Like many churchgoers, I begin the day in the spirit of warm acceptance, but sometimes I end the day with a bit of a chill. 

A little back story.  I have an autoimmune disorder that causes discomfort from cold temperatures.  During the summer months I avoid air-conditioned superstores and all restaurants that don't offer patio seating because after I spend an hour in air-conditioning, I am forced to spend an equal amount of time curled up regenerating heat to regain movement in my hips, elbows, knees and fingers.  And, awaiting that thaw can be awkward at closing time. 

Most weeks, I sit for an hour at church and solidify, then I spend the first part of second hour standing outside basking in the regenerating, (others might say cloying and oppressive,) heat of Oklahoma.  It’s a very pleasant time that I spend people watching—an activity that could be augmented by the addition of a bench.  But I understand that a chair might encourage exactly what a church is trying to avoid;  people feeling more comfortable outside the building than inside it.  

Church chic is a clothing challenge since I am compelled to wear thermal long underwear year-round.  It's an outdated fashion that hearkens back to the time period when women wore six petticoats and men withstood the chill by donning long underwear in the winter and leaving them to rot off in the springtime.  But I’ve made it work for me.  It’s not that hard to add a sweater to my ensemble, with long stockings and a wool cap and fleece throw.  

The church cold-challenge appears to be nondenominational; I’ve discussed this conundrum with my favorite survey group--the Walmart checkout line, and most women there are in agreement.  Churches can be frigid, some more metaphorically than literally.  I know first-hand that layering up protects, but it also prevents permeation and I’ve begun to ponder the value of shedding insulating layers and becoming more transparent.  Could God shine through me to others more readily?  And in this life, isn't that what I’m aiming for?  If only I didn't risk the chill.   

I've recently moved across the country and in my new church home, I've found a back row of support against the cold.  These are the white-haired ladies who, through age and wisdom, have shed the chill and have joined with me in my quest for warmth.   This particular Sunday is Mother’s Day and I’ve chosen fashion over wisdom.  I’ve donned a pencil skirt and Me, Myself and I spent the morning in the jacket-or-sweater debate, but I still have come to church woefully under-dressed.  

As I enter, I notice that the chapel has been pre-chilled and the thermometer is set at its coolest so I pick up my church bag and I make the trek from my front right corner pew to the left back bench, right below the thermostat.  I tweek it up two notches—not yet up to normal, just up toward normal and then I sit down.  Right in front of it.

 I’ve always found it interesting that the temperature of a church is affected most by those wearing the most layers.  I sit defending the thermometer and muse on the generalization that men are typically more warm-blooded than women and I wonder if it stems from epigenetic evolution...   I am comfortably considering my calefaction until suddenly I gird up my loins as the “suit” approaches.  He walks up, shakes my hand and says, “So I noticed you switched up the temperature?”  I grin and rehearse the entire argument that I’ve related above, ad nauseum.  He smiles and nods and I admire how well his eyes don't roll.  Then he moves on to greet more people and I sit warmed by the peaceful organ music.

 

I watch the congregation and note that most of the congregants are dressed for comfort and are wearing lightweights and shirtsleeves, but still I ponder on the meta-physical temperature in the church being managed by the layered.  I’ve spent years in leadership callings and I know that those days spent wearing the suit are definitely warmer when the pressure of leadership sweats you out.  But on a typical day, I suspect that most of leaders could benefit from a little more training in the leadership model that focuses on the well-being of others.   Perhaps all of us who are layered could be more understanding.  We could sacrifice ourselves and put other’s thoughts, feelings and discomfort at church before our own, not unlike another great leader of spiritual philosophy… Christ. 

Suddenly, I come to the conclusion that it must start with me. So, I sacrifice my comfort and my moment of selfishness and move to sit next to a person who is also alone and who may need to feel some warmth.  We may as well sit together in the overflow section. So there I am, watching as another suit walks over and tweeks up the thermostat. 

Oh I get it, I do.  I understand.  Maybe they ARE considering others first and are reacting to the furious-fan-frenzy-attack over in the menopause section.  (I skirted that flash of pleasure and skipped straight to the frigidity of the white hairs.)  The leaders may be more attuned to the feelings and comfort of others than I first imagined. 

            So it’s a matter of two things, my attitude and my motivations.  And the question for both of me may be, “Am I being more deliberate in considering others?”  It’s easy for me to pile on the layers and put up a shield against the chill, but in my church community, sometimes it’s about daring to go naked. 

That's My Reality, and Sometimes it Bites, and When It Does, I Write.  

The Man Plan -- (A Satire)

The Man Plan    

  

The men who lead our church youth group have an easy-going leadership style. They don’t get caught up in minutiae.  They stay flexible and just go with the flow.  

The male of the species plans with a laid-back attitude and I watch with awe.    Maybe it’s a gender thing that is uniform in church leaderships worldwide? 

Men don’t sweat the small stuff.  Women spend months on details like the  table centerpiece and the guys live “Let it Go,” long before it was a song.

In our house, the cool and calm planning attitude of man gets twisted by the whirlwind that is woman,  and when it does, the blustery moments usually result in tornadoes.

Like last night.  My husband tries to balance his natural man-planning with mine, the wifely PCD’r (planning compulsively disordered).  It was our weekly-annual planning meeting, and as usual, I took the lead.  

“There is a youth activity planned; Let me have our son explain it to you,” I say.

The son shuffles in and mumbles, “It’s our turn to be in charge of the Wednesday activity.” 

“Really,” the husband looks shocked, “Already?  Are you sure?” 

His response surprises me.  I expect the male to have a, “be cool fool, we got this,” attitude.  He must be channeling his femistique.  The guy knows that the boys and girls take turns overseeing the planning—and that means somehow his time and space  has warped six months and that rift has created a deep-down fissure that could prove treacherous.

I interject coolly, “It doesn’t matter.”   I figure if he’s switching up genders, I will too.

“No,”  he recovers, “It does matter.  It’s important to follow the calendared plan.”

Still,  I can tell the unfamiliar underpinnings are chafing.

    

“Well,”   I replied, “You are right, and if there were such a thing as a plan...” 

The importance of a plan!   I have learned this from my study of a compilation of leadership books that could be titled, “The Mindset and Element of the Seven Habits of  Leadership Skills”.   Every one of those leader-building books insist that ‘The End Will Begin’ only if it’s calendared. 

So I persist,  "Let me give you an imagined scenario of how the man-planning process would go.” And I began relating the story as I have watched it played out over my decades of experience in youth activity planning. 

And to enhance the experience,  I will attempt to write this performance in a duo of male voices as I did for him:  

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(First, in the rich base tones of a radio announcer,)  "A day in the life of a male youth leader.  The alarm rings and the hand reaches for the cell phone and the eyeballs squint at the day's calendar.  Brainwaves begin  to roll in."

( My vocal pitch changes to treble,)

 “Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge of the activity tomorrow night?” as the man scans his smart phone.   “Whose week is it anyway?”

(Changing back to the Elvis voice.)  "And a distant memory from a planning meeting begins to struggle up  from the depths and belches a vague recall."

 

 (Back to the Sinatra voice,) “Seems like I heard the older group’s got it.  I heard they were planning something that sounded like fun.” 

(Bass,) "And the relief endorphins kick in."

(Tenor,) “Wow, great.  Wonder if they need help? I’ll text them tomorrow."  

(Bass,) "But then just as he’s rolling over, his calendar pings."

(Tenor,) “Oh, but I have that late meeting at work tomorrow.  I’m sure they will let me know if they need anything.  Yeah, they have my number.” 

------------------------------------------

Now, I’ve been using my voice skills, and my psychic man-channeling that’s been honed through thirty-some years of close marital contact, so as I wind down and slam the imaginary smart-flip phone shut, (because no one has ever effectively demonstrated the end of anything without a satisfactorily slam of something,)  I look at the man and his cub and say, “And that’s how it will go.”

“So honey,” I conclude in my normal voice, “I think that if you plan it, all will be okay.” 

My husband, the consummate critic of my acting skills, quirks a questioning eyebrow and says, “Maybe we just better be sure.” 

“Hey,” I counter the criticism , ‘ I cleared this activity months ago with the young women leader.” 

“Yeah, still…” his dubious mind balks at my unfamiliar faux-male casual attitude and he hesitates, proving his ignorance of  the critical component of church calendaring,  the addition of estrogen.   He turns to the budding planner, my son, the micro-male and says, “Who can you call?” 

“Well,”  I stifle the response that resounds in my head, “that would be me--the young woman leader.”    

I’m more than a little shocked that flipping out the female card hasn’t trumped and my mind races ahead to what deeper issue he may have that I haven’t already mentally considered and resolved. 

“Honey,” my husband, the long-term analyst-for-a-living rebukes, “I just don’t want to have to do this again in a month, if it’s not our turn.” 

Ah Ha!  And there we have it;  the real crux.  My mind leaps to a resolution and the drama drag queen begs to emerge.

“Oh, I get it.  Let me allay your concerns.  Let’s visualize next month, and imagine the thoughts of one of the other young men leaders,” and with a throat clearing, I drop back into my man-channeling persona. 

--------------------------------

 “Announcing a day in the life of a typical man.  Brainwaves begin  to roll in,” booms me.

My tenor, “’Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge of the activity tomorrow night?’ flipping open that magical smart/flip phone.   ‘What week is it anyway?’  

"And a distant memory belches a vague recall."

“I remember that great activity from last month and the guys planned it… so it must be the girls.”  

"And with that, all youth-activity-centered-thought ceases and the mind shifts to other world-related problems."

"The next month arrives and again youth-activity-centered thought belches," 

 “Hmmm, wonder who’s in charge tomorrow night?  Is it my week?  Ah, I recall that great activity … but it wasn’t last month as that was the girls, so it might be us...” 

"And the man pushes the button and says, 'SIRI, Text  the other male leader.'"
---------------------------------------------

Back in my own voice at home, in the kitchen, the husband watches enrapt with a slight smile on his face and I know that I’ve entertained.  

Then I wrap it up, “And every other month from then on,  that ‘great’ activity will be remembered and remarked upon.”

And the coup-de-gras--the last word?   I got it.    

"You may not have to ‘plan’ again for six more months.”   

And that's it, the earth-shattering brilliance of The Man Plan.

That's My Reality and Sometimes It Bites.  And When It Does, I Write.  

circa 2015