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The other day I received the quarterly report from my health insurance provider. It itemized the various medical visits I had made for the past three months. As I browsed through the items, I began to realize that I am accumulating quite an impressive portfolio of specialists. Of course, I have a general practice physician, which is where it all begins.

But over the years I seem to have branched out, and my medical tree now has a lot of branches. I have a neurologist, a urologist, a podiatrist, a dermatologist, an otolaryngologist, a physical therapist and a periodontist. Wow. Now that I’ve actually typed that list, I’m a bit amazed that I consider myself a generally healthy person.

We definitely live in an age of medical specialty. It wasn’t always so. Among the enduring memories of my childhood are my visits to our family doctor. His name was Dr. Fisher. He was a bit of a portly man with a gray moustache and wire rim glasses across his nose. He had a jolly laugh and always, I mean always, wore a stethoscope around his neck. I wonder if he slept in that thing.

His office smelled like formaldehyde. He had a figurine model of himself at the front of his desk, next to his name plate. Behind him was a bookshelf filled with medical journals that looked as though they were written in previous centuries. He would often refer to one of them when diagnosing my sickness. His examining room was about the size of a large closet, with room for a padded table and little else. There was a jar full of tongue depressors on the counter, but he never seemed to use them. There were large pictures on the walls of various body parts and bones. They were graphic enough to creep me out, and I tried not to look at them.

But what I remember most is that Dr. Fisher did it all. He treated headaches, tremors, broken bones, he stitched up cuts and bruises, cut the warts off your feet, treated the rash on your leg, gave you some balm to relieve the pain in your mouth after biting your tongue. No specialists needed here. If Dr. Fisher couldn’t handle it, it was time to go directly to the hospital.

My most vivid memory is the time I was playing tackle football with some friends in their backyard. As I lunged to tackle somebody, he rolled over my leg and I felt a terrible pain in my right foot. I removed my shoe and sock and was horrified to see my big toe standing straight up at a right angle to the other four. I went screaming home to show my mom, and shortly after, we got in the car for a trip to see the good doctor.

I remember sitting on his examining table, scared out of my wits. Was I in for major surgery? Would I lose the toe? Would I ever walk normally again? Dr. Fisher stared at my freakish looking toe for a moment, scratched his chin, and then without warning, he grabbed hold of it with his fist and yanked it straight down. I felt a pop, and a click. It happened so fast I didn’t even have time to feel any pain. “There”, he said. “That oughtta do it”.

I looked down in amazement. All of my toes were once again properly aligned. The big toe was a little sore but it wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. The doc would later explain to Mom that it was just a dislocation. I put my shoe on and traipsed out of there as though nothing had happened.

From that point on, I had a new appreciation of Dr. Fisher. I felt as though he was kind of a miracle worker, a super hero. You just don’t find that kind of all purpose, country doctor anymore.

About fifty years later, I had a bad fall off my bicycle. My right shoulder took the brunt of my impact with the road. It hurt badly, and I noticed my shoulder bone was protruding a little higher. This time it was my wife Sharon taking me to the emergency room, where the doctor said my scapula had been slightly displaced. As he worked on it, I was perfectly calm. Not a whimper or a groan. I’d been through this before.

Dr. Fisher would have been proud.

“Lay down flat on your back”, she said. “Put your hands on your chest and lay your head in the stabilizing helmet. Most importantly, try not to move in any way”. Then she folded a covering over my face and locked it down. “Are you ready?” she asked. “Yes ma’am” I replied. “You’ll be in there about fifteen minutes” she said as she slid me into the narrow tube.

I had been having issues with headaches. Kind of a constant pressure on my temples and forehead. The dull ache had been there for about a month and showed no sign of letting up. This was frightening to me because I’m not a headache person. I never got headaches. There’s no natural reason for this, I thought. I’m not under a lot of stress or tension. I haven’t fallen or suffered a concussion. I don’t have eye strain. When I told all this to my neurologist, he immediately scheduled me for an MRI scan of my brain.

So there I lay, motionless, eyes closed, tightly stuffed into a narrow tube, a machine probing my skull, with only my thoughts to keep me company. I said a few prayers. Then, being a natural born pessimist, I chose to prepare myself for the worst possible scenario. What if they find a brain tumor? What then?

If this is the beginning of the end, what am I to make of my life? After pondering the possibility, I decided I’m not afraid to die. I know my eternal future is secure. I thought about how incredibly blessed I have been. Wife, kids, grandkids, career and friends. I’ve truly had it all.

I thought about regrets. People I wish I had treated better. Situations I could have handled with more love and patience. I thought about goals I had not yet accomplished. I thought about my grandkids growing up, wondering if I had established any kind of legacy in their minds, or if they would remember me at all. I thought about those who have crossed over before me, Mom and Dad, Grandma, a grandchild that was lost at birth, so many dear friends. I’m going to see them again! That gave me a warm feeling. I thought about that verse in the Bible where Jesus said “I go to prepare a place for you”.

It was at that point I felt the anxiety drain out of my body. I found myself at peace as the weird electronic noises around me stopped, and I felt myself being slid out of the tube. Whatever you want Lord, I’m ready to face it.

The next day the neurologist called to tell me my MRI was completely normal. No brain tumors. I’m on medication for the headaches, and they seem to be getting better. But I can’t stop thinking about the feeling of security and tranquility I felt coming out of that tube. I scrambled to find that Bible passage. It’s John 14:2-3.

“My Father’s house has many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I have prepared a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me so you also can be where I am.”

Turns out I wasn’t alone in that tube after all.

I am at the neighborhood pool with my four year old grandson. I’m standing waist deep in the water, trying to coax him into coming down the pool steps and joining me. He is hesitant. He explains he is afraid of going under the water. I assure him I will be there to catch him.

After much cajoling and encouragement, he slowly builds up the courage to go down two steps, reach out his arms, and leap toward me. I snatch him and pull him close to me, giving him a big hug and praising him for being such a brave boy. He is very pleased with his accomplishment, and immediately wants to do it again. And again. And again.

After several jumps and several catches and several big smiles, I decide it’s time for him to take the next step. I want him to get past his fear of being underwater. If he’s going to learn to swim, he has to get accustomed to holding his breath and controlling his body. This time, as he lunges toward me, I relax my arms just a bit. Just enough so that he lands in the water and sinks below the surface for just a second. Then I quickly yank him up and say “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

His face has a look of stunned surprise, as water runs down from his hair, and out from his eyes and nose. Uh-oh, I think. Is he going to cry and run away, never to trust me again? Thankfully, he recovers from the shock in a few seconds, and the big smile returns as he screams out “That was fun! Do it again!” Whence follows many, many more jumps, submergences, pull-ups and smiles. He’s okay going under, just so long as I’m there to pull him up.

I guess life is kind of like that. We cruise along in our comfort zones, afraid to take that plunge, that leap into a new adventure, a new challenge. What if it doesn’t work out? What if it leaves me twisting in the wind, embarrassed, my self esteem sinking. Sort of like ……… being under water?

We’re not inclined to be brave unless we can be sure of rescue, of someone there to catch us and pull us up out of our adversity. The book of Psalms mentions the word “rescue” 129 times. The whole message is summed up in 34:22. “The Lord will rescue His servants. No one who takes refuge in Him will be condemned.”

Whatever your dilemma might be, just do the right thing. It probably won’t be the easiest option, or the most desirable, or the most self-gratifying. If it was, it wouldn’t be a dilemma. Just know that, if you put your faith in Him, he’ll be there to catch you. He may let you go underwater for a while, just to get you prepared for the next step. You may be shocked and stunned at your unexpected circumstances, but in time you’ll recover and realize you don’t have to be afraid.

In fact, you may even break out a huge smile, and look for opportunities to do the right thing again. And again. And again.

Life is really all about making adjustments, isn’t it? As children, we adjust to the rules our parents lay down for us, and, of course, we rebel against some of them. As students we adjust to the discipline required to obtain an education. As young adults we adjust to the pressures of earning a living, dating, getting married, raising children, buying a house. In middle age we adjust to grown children, empty nests, the return of the grown children, and setting the stage for retirement.

Which brings us to the senior stage, where I happen to reside now. Again, there are adjustments. More free time. Health concerns. Managing money so that you will have enough. Grandchildren. New aches and pains every day. By this time hopefully we are old enough and wise enough to make the necessary changes in our routine and lifestyle to maintain at least a reasonably good quality of life and happiness.

You get used to not being able to do things as nimbly and athletically as you could when you were younger. You get used to having to take a little more time to get up off the floor after sitting down to play with the grands. You get used to taking pills. You get used to waking up earlier in the morning, going to bed earlier at night, eating lunch at 11am and dinner at 5pm…..promptly. Frequent doctor appointments. Getting confused by technology.

But as long as the Good Lord allows me to live, there is one thing I will never get used to. As the years pass on, I keep losing good friends. Sweet people with whom I have so many treasured memories and experiences. Folks who are just part of me. I guess that’s why I take their passing so hard, because a part of me, that relationship that we shared, dies with them.

Yes, I’m getting older. Most of my circle of friends and acquaintances are around my age, and thus it’s inevitable that some will cross the bridge. Of course I understand it, but I haven’t learned to handle it well. Don’t guess I ever will.

The Covid outbreak, when it was at its worst, was especially heartbreaking. It took several of those whom I loved. Other diseases continue to do the same. Just recently, it happened again. Her name was Carol Miller. Cancer got her. She was a subscriber and frequent commenter on this blog. Many of you readers know her, and that’s not a coincidence. Carol was one of those salt of the earth people who drew people to her like bees to honey. I first met Carol and her awesome husband Guy when they joined my Sunday School class many years ago. She was the first to volunteer whenever any act of ministry needed to be organized or done. She and Guy opened up their home for countless get- togethers and bonding activities. She was a leader of Christian mission groups both local and regional. Most of all, she was a loyal friend, to me and to everyone she met.

We just can’t afford to lose the Carol Millers. This troubled world needs them too desperately. I suppose it should be encouraging that she leaves behind an incredible legacy. She has inspired many, both young and old, to follow her leadership and example. She showed us how it’s done. Hers is a life well lived.

I guess I will get used to not hearing from her now and then, not seeing her supportive comments on this blog, on my Facebook wall and elsewhere. But I’ll never forget her. It seems trite and inadequate to restate the old adage, but it remains so true: treasure every moment with those you care about, because our time with them is finite.

I have learned to live with that.

But I’ll never get used to it.

I have never claimed to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. I am a spontaneous person, and I do a lot of things without thinking them through. Some of them are pretty dumb. But recently I set a new standard. Yes, I did what must surely qualify as the dumbest thing in the history of dumb things.

The story requires a bit of set up. Our house has a finished basement which we often use as a playroom for the grandkids when they come to visit. Over the last couple years, we have accumulated piles of toys, pieces of toys, and partial pieces of the pieces of toys. When the tykes go home, we just shovel everything into a pile against the wall. One day, we decided it would be nice, and certainly neater, to order one of those toy storage organizers, with the twelve cube-shaped baskets that fit snugly into separate compartments.

Sharon picked one she liked off the internet and ordered it. It arrived, unassembled, in a huge box about four days later outside our front door. I opened the door, wrapped my arms around it, and tried to lift it into the house. Whoa! Not a chance. Apparently, there was more lumber and hardware in there than I had anticipated, and it weighted a ton! The best I could do was lean the giant box over and drag it through the doorway. I then dragged it to the kitchen door leading to the basement, pathetically grunting and groaning all the way. Several times during this lengthy process, Sharon pointed out that I shouldn’t do this alone, and offered to help me. But being the masculine, macho husband that I am, I cavalierly refused.

Eventually, I opened the kitchen door, which leads to a fifteen step descension. At the bottom of those steps is the door to the garage, while the door to the playroom is on the right. Both doors were closed. I stopped and pondered for a moment the best way to get the box down the steps. Once again, Sharon offered to help. Once again, I declined. I decided to lean the box down on its side, push it partially over the first step, and slide it down.

That’s when it happened. I did the dumbest thing in the history of dumb things. After leaning the box over the top step, I let go of it so as to move around ahead of it and ease it down one step at a time. You can guess what happened. The instant I let go, that huge, heavy box took off down the steps like a rocket launched out of a silo. It flew down the stairway and smashed into the garage door so hard, the doorknob was dislodged from the door.

Did you ever have one of those moments where you just stand there in suspended animation, wondering if what you just witnessed really happened? Hoping you’re about to wake up from some bizarre dream? That was me staring in disbelief at the top of the steps. Did I really just do that? Could any human being be that stupid? Upon hearing the tremendous crash, Sharon came running, and recognized immediately what happened. If ever there was an I-told-you-so moment, that was it. She must love me. She just smiled gently and said accidents will happen. Maybe the ashen look on my face scared her.

Needless to say, we now need a new garage door. What bothers me the most, is that there were so many more sensible courses of action. Taking the contents out of the box upstairs, or letting Sharon help me slide it down the steps, or just dragging the dang thing around the outside of the house and coming in through the garage! Duh!

I really don’t even know why I’m writing about this. I should be taking this ridiculous incident to the grave. Maybe, in some sick corner of my mind, I’m hoping there are readers out there who will comment about something they’ve done, something they thought was even dumber, just to make me feel better.

I’m waiting…….

So the Lord said to Moses “Take Joshua, the son of Nun, a man in whom is the spirit of leadership, and lay your hand on him.” — Numbers 27:18

The Bible makes it clear that men are to be leaders. Leaders in their families, leaders in their communities and leaders in their church.

Leading is usually not a comfortable place to be. It’s much safer to lay back in the crowd, take time to survey the landscape, let someone else set the direction and then judge the reaction to it. If it works, then fall in step. If it gets criticized, distance yourself from it.

This is precisely the way politics works. For example, several of the people running for state and national office in Alabama are trying very hard to become connected with Donald Trump, while doing their best to distance themselves from any hint of being liberal. That’s the safe path to election in this state.

But Christianity is not politics. In fact, it’s the opposite. Politics is the art of being popular, which necessitates drawing attention to oneself. By contrast, Christianity emphasizes humility and service to others. Surrendering self to follow Jesus and his teachings. Politicians lay back, see which way the wind is blowing, and then jump on the bandwagon.

The Bible tells the story of the transition of leadership from Moses to Joshua. Moses had sent out a group of twelve scouts to see if conquering the promised land was doable. Most of them came back wanting to play it safe. The natives were too big, too strong, too numerous, they reported. There’s no way the Jews could defeat them. Only Joshua and Caleb came back with confidence that, with God’s guidance, they could accomplish anything.

That’s leadership. That’s what it looks like. Not playing it safe, not laying back in the crowd to see what works, what’s popular. Trusting God to lead you in directions that you may not be comfortable with, but are destined to travel. As Moses neared the end of his time on earth, God told him to make Joshua the new leader. The Lord knew Joshua would choose the obedient path, a path that could make him very unpopular with the crowd, based on the negative reports of the other scouts. In fact, at one point the Jews wanted to stone him.

Being a leader makes you vulnerable. Leaders get criticized. People expect them to have all the answers. They expect leaders to be fair, though their own perception of fairness is often skewed toward themselves. Leaders get pressure to succeed. In the business world, an unsuccessful leader gets fired. Who needs all of that?

We do. There has never been a more urgent need for men to step up and stand out, both by word and by example. It’s not a subjugation of women. It’s a complement to them. With God, being an unsuccessful leader is impossible. Even if you don’t please people, you are running the race for which you were created. Pleasing people is not the goal.

It is particularly critical for the men of our senior generation, of which I am a part, to set this tone for our younger observers. They need to see men of conviction, unafraid to proclaim the word of Christ, unafraid to be the first in line for ministry and prayer, unafraid to trust in God’s providence with our finances.

We’ve raised our families. We’ve shown them how to work hard and provide. We’ve shown them how to love and forgive. Now let’s show them how to lead.

It’s a man thing.

I was driving through a Trussville neighborhood recently when I saw something that warmed my heart. A group of children were gathered in an empty lot playing baseball. They looked to range between about eight and twelve years old and they were having a blast. There were no uniforms, no coaches, no scoreboards, no beautifully manicured ball diamonds, no bleachers full of emotional parents and grandparents.

You almost never see that anymore, and there are good reasons for it. The trend seems to be toward building huge houses with small yards, so most families don’t have a yard big enough on which to play ball. Some of the newer subdivisions have a common ball diamond in the playground area, but you rarely see anybody using it.

Then too, the time when mom and dad could feel okay with their child running out the door unsupervised to go play in somebody else’s yard is, sadly, long past. In this scary world we live in today, parents want their eyeballs on the kids as much as possible, and I don’t blame them. Then there are video games and the internet. Why play ball outside when you can slay dragons and alien invaders in your bedroom, while munching on trail mix and slurping down a Coke?

It wasn’t always so. I grew up back in prehistoric times, the late 1950’s and early 60’s, far before anybody knew what a computer chip was, much less a QR code. Seeing those kids play ball took me back fondly to those days, when the topic of conversation on the school bus ride home was always, whose yard is the game in today? We would bolt off the bus, rush into the house, knock down a quick snack, then grab our ball glove and favorite bat and head out to the designated backyard to play for a few hours until the sun went down.

We had to improvise. First base was a rock. Second base was a piece of cardboard. Third base was my friend Joey’s T-shirt. He hated that shirt, but his mom made him wear it, so he quickly stripped it off once out of sight. Home plate was a ball glove supplied by somebody from the team at bat. There was an understanding that it was unnecessary to step on it when batting or scoring. We didn’t have to choose up sides. We knew who we wanted to play with.

There was no outfield wall. Nobody put up privacy fences in those days. The lots were huge and wide open, and the boundary was the woods. If you managed to hit the ball into the woods, you just kept running the bases while the outfielders searched frantically for the ball amidst the brush, the leaves, and the scattered patches of poison ivy. There were frequent disputes about the score, but when it became too dark to continue playing, we all just headed home, not really caring who won. Man, I miss those days.

I frequently go jogging through the Trussville sports park on busy Saturdays. Often baseball, football, soccer and lacrosse are all in full swing. Cars are parked everywhere. In fact, creative parking has become an art form on those days. Sometimes I stop for a few minutes to observe a ball game from a distance. I see the kids stepping up to the plate, with a capacity crowd watching and reacting to their every move, while coaches yell instructions. I would have been petrified at that age. Are they enjoying and basking in all the attention? Or just feeling pressure and stress?

I certainly have no problem with organized youth sports. It gives our young people something constructive to do and teaches them many positive traits. And there is always the chance your child may excel and begin the path that leads to a scholarship one day. The Trussville Park & Rec department does a great job at what must be a daunting task, finding fields and time slots for hundreds of games and thousands of kids.

I just find myself comparing the kids under those expensive batting helmets to the ones I saw in that empty lot, and wonder who’s having more fun.

“The proud man may learn humility, but he will be proud of it.” — Mignon McLaughlin

That’s one of my all-time favorite quotes. I have always been fascinated by the concept of humility. What exactly is it? A state of mind? A lifestyle? Is humility something you have? Or is it something you are. Can a person be humble in some things, but not in others? Or do you have to be one hundred percent totally humble to have humility?

I once heard a preacher say that humility is the strangest virtue of all because the moment you think you finally have it, you’ve lost it! For my part, I can only paraphrase a famous saying. I can’t define true humility, but I know it when I see it. I used to think humility was living a life of service to others without caring if you received any credit or acknowledgement. But after having the privilege of a lifetime of observing some truly humble people, I have come to see it goes deeper than that.

Real humility is a mission of serving others without even realizing there is credit or acknowledgement to be had. The truly humble seem to just live right for the sheer joy that it brings. Most often I have found it connected to a person’s spiritual relationship. In the Bible, the book of James states “Humble yourselves before the Lord and He will lift you up.” Psalm 149 says “For the Lord takes delight in His people. He crowns the humble with victory.” Sure enough, that seems to work for the authentically humble folks that I know. They just live a life of unselfishness because they are secure the love will come back to them. You could, in fact, make the argument that the only way to achieve real humility is through faith in such a higher power.

If you’re lucky, you know people like this. You’ve seen it modeled. You recognize it right away, don’t you? It sticks out like car headlights on a dark street. People who do for others so consistently and quietly, that they might even be a bit surprised and puzzled by any notice or credit.

Here’s an example. United Ability, located off Lakeshore Drive in the Homewood area, provides programs for people who are genuinely disabled. The teachers in those classrooms work very hard and deal with a lot of adversity. But you probably knew that. What you may not know, is that there is a separate staff, whose full time job is to take the participants to the bathroom and, if necessary, help them to execute their bodily functions, clean them up and return them to the classroom. That’s what they do. Every day.

They are called PCA’s, which stands for personal care attendant. You would not expect these workers to be particularly happy campers. You would be wrong. Most of them go about their jobs with a smile on their face, a sweet disposition, and the offer of a helping hand wherever it is needed, while going largely unrecognized by the general public. They are angels of mercy not only to the special needs people they tend to, but to the teachers they assist. I know this to be true. For two years, I was one of the substitute teachers they ministered to.

Seeing humility like that modeled in real life brings home my distance from it. I still get offended when I open a door for someone and they don’t respond with a “thank you”. It’s not for lack of wanting to be humble. (Is it even okay to want to be humble?) I enjoy service to others, and I like to think I have done a bit of it. But alas, I must sheepishly confess that I enjoy, maybe even need, a little acknowledgement once in awhile. Just a little pat on the back. An occasional “attaboy”. I guess I want to be humble, but I want everyone to know that I’m humble.

Thomas Merton said “Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real”. I suppose that’s what makes true humility so easy to spot, but so hard to emulate. We only approach it when we are content to just be the real person we were created to be, instead of laboring hard to be someone admired by others.

So find the real people in your life. Watch them blush as you tell them how much you love and appreciate their humble walk. You don’t even have to mention you got the idea by reading this column.

See? I’m getting more humble already.

My daughter, son-in-law, and their three kids climbed into their minivan and drove off, bound for Disney World. Sharon and I stood waving in the doorway, Sharon holding the eight month old baby boy they were leaving with us. For the first time in thirty-six years, we were going to be the full time caretakers of an infant. This nine day assignment had been planned for months. But just because you know something is coming doesn’t mean you’re prepared for it.

To this point, we had the blessing of enjoying our grandchildren in smaller doses. We spent many days and evenings with them babysitting, taking them to the playground, going to watch their ballgames and dance recitals and such. Occasionally one of them would spend the night. But nine straight days? This was taking it to a whole new level.

Did we remember anything about taking care of a baby full time? Will we get any sleep? Did I still possess the ability to suspend breathing through my nose while changing a diaper?

We were told the little guy would wake up about 4am each morning. Sharon told me the schedule. It called for a feeding and nap at 9am, another feeding and nap at 2pm, and to bed for the night around 7pm. I replied that would work fine for me, but what about the baby? She failed to see the humor.

At least he wasn’t up and running yet. He had worked his way to doing that army crawl, where you pull with your arms and drag the rest of your body behind you. We spread a blanket out on the floor and scattered several of his toys around it, foolishly believing the blanket would contain him. It’s amazing how fast a tyke can slither across a room, especially when there’s a dachshund chewing a rubber bone on the other side of the floor. Poor Oscar had to endure getting his floppy ears yanked and his tail pulled. Being the gentlest dog on the planet, he merely responded by attempting to slurp the baby in the face. (If my daughter reads this, don’t panic. We managed to stop him before any of the slurps landed….. I think.)

Feedings were interesting. We would gently slide the spoon into his mouth, whereupon he would take great delight in motorboating his food back out, spraying us with it. Didn’t take long to realize I was the one needing the bib, not him. We took him for walks on Trussville’s greenway along the Cahaba. The soft spring breeze and gentle vibration of the stroller wheels would lull him to sleep, thereby throwing him off schedule. Oh well, a sleeping baby was a happy baby we figured. I know it makes for happy grandparents. Ultimately we realized trying to establish a schedule was futile. He was on his own schedule. It was quite clearly his world and we were just living in it.

At this point I should pause to emphasize that I have been using the word “we” loosely. Sharon did most of the work, most of the getting up overnight, most of the diaper changing, most of the feedings. Yet, somehow, I felt more exhausted than she did. Where do women get this capacity to care for loved ones 24/7, enduring the fatigue and frustration? The old saying is true. There’s nothing like a mother’s love. Or a grandmother’s love. I frequently offered to jump in and take over. She usually let me off the hook, saying “It’s okay dear. I’ve got this.” Man, I love that woman.

Mainly, I was in charge of play time with this little ball of energy, or rocking him to sleep while we watched sports on TV together, or an occasional feeding, or releasing his clutches from Oscar’s ear. We watched a lot of that satellite channel Baby TV. It’s educational, but a bit ambitious. I’m not sure our eight month old is ready to learn what a trapezoid is.

I was also appointed vice-president in charge of non-baby activities, such as walking dogs (ours and theirs) and making food runs. All in all, it actually was quite fun , and apparently the baby had a blast as well, judging by the glee in his face when he managed to strafe the glasses off my face, or pull my fingers into his mouth and chomp them with both of his teeth. I had always heard there are only two reasons a baby cries. Either he is hungry or dirty. I beg to differ. Sometimes they just feel like being cranky, for no apparent reason. I can relate.

And why is it that, when you’re taking care of a baby, you always seem to see pacifiers lying around all over the place. Until you need one. At which time they have all disappeared into thin air.

The first day or two seemed to last forever, but after we settled into a routine, the time went by quickly. Now that he’s back home, I miss the little guy. Our week together was much more of a joy than I had anticipated. I wouldn’t mind doing that again.

Just don’t tell Oscar. His ears and tail are still recovering.

I bought my first car in 1972. It was a brand new Plymouth Gold Duster. I loved that ride. Treated it with the tender loving care you’d give a newborn baby.

I had just gotten hired to my first full-time job at the exorbitant salary of $400 per month. My biggest concern was that I would not be able to afford the gas to keep the car running. After all, the price at the pump had zoomed up to a ridiculous thirty-six cents per gallon. Just a few years earlier, we were only paying a quarter.

Outrageous as this obvious price gouge was, at least I was still getting full service when I pulled in. I had but to roll down my window (hand cranking it of course), and tell attendant number one whether I wanted to fill ‘er up, or just get my usual five dollars worth. Meanwhile, attendant number two was already at work spraying detergent across my windshield, wiping it clean, and examining my wipers to see if they were getting worn. Simultaneously, my hood would pop up, as attendant #3 was busily checking my oil and wiper fluid levels, while pulling the wire brush out of his tool belt to scrape the corrosion off my battery terminals. Attendant #4 was lurking around the perimeter of my vehicle, taking the inflation reading from all of my tires.

If I got a tad bored while waiting, I could step out of my car while all this was going on and roam into the station, where I could pick up a free state road map, and draw a soft drink out of the dispenser. The drink was supposed to cost a dime, but often the station owner would just give me a wink and tell me it was on the house. Really, the least he could do, considering the bizarre profit he must have been making off my gas purchase. Most of the time, I just sat in my car and watched the service team at work. I was reluctantly willing to pay the increased cost, because these guys always came out and gave me the full service treatment. At least that would never change.

Four years later, I traded in my Gold Duster for a 1976 AMC Gremlin. Oh, I see you laughing. I’ll have you know this weird looking little vehicle was all the rage then. Wide and a little clunky, but it had stereo speakers in the doors and FM radio! And the gear shift was on the floor, as opposed to the steering wheel, giving it a race car feel. It was awesome. But there was trouble brewing.

At the time, I was busy getting married and pursuing my career. I wasn’t paying much attention to the news. I kept hearing snippets of reports about America’s deteriorating relationship with the oil producing countries in the Middle East. Whatever, my young adult mind thought. Not my concern. Until this thing called the great gas shortage struck in the late seventies.

Not only did the price per gallon skyrocket to eighty-nine cents, but, even at that unimaginable price, there wasn’t enough to go around. The country actually had to resort to gas rationing. If your license tag ended in an even number, you were allowed to buy fuel on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. If an odd number, you could gas up on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. Run out on Sunday? Too bad. Pump up the tires on your bicycle.

There were lines at the pump blocks long. There were fist fights as drivers got out of their cars to challenge someone who tried to cut in. I clearly remember my Dad, who was a staunch Republican, complaining that the whole mess was because the Democrats in office had mishandled the whole foreign policy thing, and that things would get better if Ronald Reagan could win the presidential election in 1980. “Mark my words” Dad said. “Gas will never go above the one dollar mark.”

Reagan did indeed take office in 1980. Gas went up to $1.19 per gallon.

In 1989, after buying a house and having children, I graduated to driving a truck. It was a Mazda with an extended cab so the kids could sit in the backseat. I wasn’t getting anywhere near the gas mileage I had with the smaller cars, but that was okay. Things had settled down on the international oil market, and the United States had stepped up its own production. The cost per gallon had actually gone down and was hovering around one dollar.

By this time, I was pumping my own gas, wiping my own windshield, checking my own oil and fluid levels, and inflating my own tires. A lot more work, but I was okay with that. At least the gas crisis was history. We had learned from our mistakes.

I knew I would never have to pay $1.19 for gas again.