In a meeting earlier this week, a coworker indicated that she would have to leave early because of an appointment. She was going to the dentist to be prepped for a new crown. I could tell that she was none too excited about the prospect. She said that, “my medical experiences seem to always be different that everyone else’s.”
I immediately thought about my “open” MRI experience. I am not particularly well versed in all aspects of medical technology, and didn’t know anything about MRI. However, the fact that they kept stressing that the MRI would be “open” made me a little nervous. I did a little research and found out that a typical MRI was a tube, roughly half the size of a small slide at the playground at McDonald’s. This was not good news for a “big boned” guy like myself. Oh, by the way, I wouldn’t be screaming and sliding through real fast with all my friends. I’d be alone, need to lie still and going through really S-L-O-W-L-Y.
Yippee!
But they kept saying OPEN.
When I got the read-ahead package from the Imaging Center, the words were oh so reassuring. Right there in the first page it said, “New technology allows us to now get high quality images in a more open environment; and “Open MRI & CT Specialists will supply suitable clothing for your examination.” OK, maybe it will be like a full sized McDonald’s slide. Maybe I won’t get stuck in there, naked. Luckily, they scheduled this out at least three weeks so I would have adequate time to think about it, (make out my will, plan my funeral, prearrange with my “final needs specialist.”)
Finally my day came. I arrived with all my forms, insurance cards, letter from my doctor, (note to my next of kin.) I was not in the lobby but a few minutes before Ginger escorted me back to the dressing room. She gave me a nice bag that contained my “suitable clothing for my examination.” It didn’t take long to understand how relative the term, “suitable” really is. This was clearly from the “Minimal Modesty” collection of some medical supply house. They probably paid more for the wordsmithing on the brochure than for this thin, breezy toga.
As Ginger escorted me into the examining room, she explained that some people were unnerved by the gentle thumping sound of the MRI machine, and headphones were provided so I could relax and listen to soothing music during my MRI. “What kind of music do you prefer?” she asked.
I said that most any kind of light stuff would be good; smooth jazz, soft rock, classical, just about anything but country or rap.
Ginger turned me over to Bertha. Bertha assured me that this would take only 20-30 minutes. (20-30 minutes? No one had told me it would take 20-30 minutes while I had my clothes on.) She confirmed my music choices, helped me on the table, (which had been chilled just for me,) put my headphones on me and said that she would be “just behind that glass, during the entire session.”
That was the last I saw of Bertha for a LONG TIME.
I closed my eyes and began to relax to the soothing soft-rock music of the “60’s, 70’s and 80’s” as I began my slow move. In fact, I was almost asleep when Karen Carpenter morphed into Merle Haggard. Merle Haggard? My eyes flew open and I saw where my feet were headed. “Oh my word, this is like a conveyor belt in a pizza oven, except it’s a microwave.”
I felt like I was doing an up-close visual inspection of the underbelly of the Starship Enterprise. THUNK-THUNK-THUNK. Ginger, you said, “gentle thumping.” This is like Main Street on Saturday night.
I didn’t even know there was an “all Haggard, all the time station,” but ole Merle’s music was so painful, he kept my mind off the “gentle thumping” and the underbelly of the Enterprise. When Ginger and Bertha helped me off the table, I was in pretty good shape, except my jaw muscles were cramping from grinding my teeth.
Looking back, I guess it could have been worse; ole Merle could have been rapping…..
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Gentle Nudges
Although it has been a couple of weeks, I still have Father’s Day on the brain. Father’s Day was never big to me growing up because I lost my father at 2 years old. It became a big deal when I had children of my own.
The week leading up to Father’s Day is when we traditionally have Bible School in Empire. I don’t think that I have missed a Bible School in my church in the last 50 years. I have gone from student to adult helper; from puppeteer to sound technician and photographer; from a barefooted kid with a crew cut and mischief in his eye to a grey-headed old guy with, well, oh never mind.
There were more than 20 adults that were involved this year with some aspect of Bible School. TWENTY! I couldn’t help but think about what impact that week would have on the children. We had a dog mascot; one night we had a roman soldier, a super hero maintenance man and pizza delivery guy. Oh yes, we also had “water woman.” More than a dozen gave of their time to cook, do crafts, and lead in group games. All of these people had other things to do, but came to make a difference. I also thought about the fact that a lot of parents, some of which I didn’t even know, were entrusting the lives and minds of their precious little ones to us. What a responsibility! Were we up to it? Was I up to it? I wasn’t teaching, but I was there, trying to help in some small way.
When I was growing up in this church, there were many people who looked after me, influenced me, and nurtured me. Bible school was small, and led by a handful of moms like mine. When I became a teenager, Bible school was less important to me. Even with good upbringing, I had become a troubled youth. I don’t remember a lot about that time, but one man stands out as a voice of encouragement to me. He was not a Sunday school teacher or a minister. He didn’t sing or lead the choir. He was an old railroad man with a red face and rough hands. His name was Kanah Belflower.
Mr. Kanah was not always there. His job took him away a lot. Like a lot of other men that farmed, and such, he missed a lot of Wednesday night services. In fact, he was not there every Sunday night. But Sunday mornings after church, he’d always find me and ask what was going on in my life. He didn’t miss much, but he never mentioned my somewhat long and unkempt hair, or my clothes.
“Hey, boy, don’t you have some new wheels on your car?” or “Wasn’t that a new girl I saw you with last Sunday? She sure was pretty!”
When I answer that she was pretty, but had dumped me on Monday, he’d respond with something like, “Oh she’s just immature. She probably wasn’t your type anyway. When you find the right one, you’ll know.”
I am sure that the man I knew from church was quite different from the man his children knew. He was not responsible for me. He didn’t have to do anything, but he did. I can’t think of anything that he did that was openly intended to influence me. I was just a wayward teenager that most adults avoided or admonished. He gently nudged me along in the right direction and expressed interest in my life like no other.
As I saw those kids in Bible school, I wondered, who is their old railroad man? Who is gently nudging them in the right direction? Do they see me as one who cares about their well being, or am I just a white-headed, grumpy old man with a sore back and a bad attitude?
I always look forward to Bible school, but I don’t have to wait till next year for Bible school, or Father’s Day to do something. I can encourage, I can nudge, and I can overlook a lot and give a word of encouragement or at least a smile. You can too. Mr. Kanah would like that.
The week leading up to Father’s Day is when we traditionally have Bible School in Empire. I don’t think that I have missed a Bible School in my church in the last 50 years. I have gone from student to adult helper; from puppeteer to sound technician and photographer; from a barefooted kid with a crew cut and mischief in his eye to a grey-headed old guy with, well, oh never mind.
There were more than 20 adults that were involved this year with some aspect of Bible School. TWENTY! I couldn’t help but think about what impact that week would have on the children. We had a dog mascot; one night we had a roman soldier, a super hero maintenance man and pizza delivery guy. Oh yes, we also had “water woman.” More than a dozen gave of their time to cook, do crafts, and lead in group games. All of these people had other things to do, but came to make a difference. I also thought about the fact that a lot of parents, some of which I didn’t even know, were entrusting the lives and minds of their precious little ones to us. What a responsibility! Were we up to it? Was I up to it? I wasn’t teaching, but I was there, trying to help in some small way.
When I was growing up in this church, there were many people who looked after me, influenced me, and nurtured me. Bible school was small, and led by a handful of moms like mine. When I became a teenager, Bible school was less important to me. Even with good upbringing, I had become a troubled youth. I don’t remember a lot about that time, but one man stands out as a voice of encouragement to me. He was not a Sunday school teacher or a minister. He didn’t sing or lead the choir. He was an old railroad man with a red face and rough hands. His name was Kanah Belflower.
Mr. Kanah was not always there. His job took him away a lot. Like a lot of other men that farmed, and such, he missed a lot of Wednesday night services. In fact, he was not there every Sunday night. But Sunday mornings after church, he’d always find me and ask what was going on in my life. He didn’t miss much, but he never mentioned my somewhat long and unkempt hair, or my clothes.
“Hey, boy, don’t you have some new wheels on your car?” or “Wasn’t that a new girl I saw you with last Sunday? She sure was pretty!”
When I answer that she was pretty, but had dumped me on Monday, he’d respond with something like, “Oh she’s just immature. She probably wasn’t your type anyway. When you find the right one, you’ll know.”
I am sure that the man I knew from church was quite different from the man his children knew. He was not responsible for me. He didn’t have to do anything, but he did. I can’t think of anything that he did that was openly intended to influence me. I was just a wayward teenager that most adults avoided or admonished. He gently nudged me along in the right direction and expressed interest in my life like no other.
As I saw those kids in Bible school, I wondered, who is their old railroad man? Who is gently nudging them in the right direction? Do they see me as one who cares about their well being, or am I just a white-headed, grumpy old man with a sore back and a bad attitude?
I always look forward to Bible school, but I don’t have to wait till next year for Bible school, or Father’s Day to do something. I can encourage, I can nudge, and I can overlook a lot and give a word of encouragement or at least a smile. You can too. Mr. Kanah would like that.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
I am not dead yet
For over a year I wrote with great regularity but in November 2008, I stopped. OK, maybe it wasn’t a whole year. Well, maybe not that regular either. I wish I had a really good excuse for quitting. How about, “someone stole the period from my keyboard and I just can’t write without adequate punctuation.” Or maybe, “Preparing for retirement and actually retiring just took too much out of me.” The fact is, I never quit making notes to myself, never quit laughing at the world around me, but I never got around to writing the whole stories down, and I completely failed to share any of them.
This is not my first time falling off the writer’s wagon. There is always the possibility that it won’t be my last either. It has always amazed me how hard it is to develop good habits and how fragile those good habits really are. Eating right, exercising, reading and writing daily; these are so hard to get going and so easy to lay aside. On the other hand, that 9 PM bowl of ice cream, while relaxing in your recliner and watching the Braves seems so natural (and habit forming.)
At least some of my friends have asked me if my computer was broken. It is not broken, merely neglected. I really want to get back to writing things, so I am going to make a commitment to post at least once a week. I want to include all of the dozen years, or so, worth of stuff I have written too. So I intend to write my new stuff and mix in the old that doesn’t seem stale. Hopefully, it will all be fresh enough for public consumption.
When I began talking about needing to get back to putting things on paper, my sweet bride went and got her journal and shared two quotes with me:
“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” Aristotle
And, “Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.” Churchill
The first quote is motivating to me. The second quote makes me wonder what she is thinking about my new plans. She says that she read the second quote to me just because it was the next one in her journal. We’ll see.
In a writer’s conference this spring, I heard Lauretta Hannon say, “write now, worry later.” I will try to put that into practice. I do have stories. In the coming week and months, I’ll tell you about Bible School, Father’s day, and an old railroad man; the tale of the dancing undertaker (I have pictures); why my brother’s recliner hurts his back; how Chicken Road got its name; Only halfway home but broken and OUT, subtitled: is 50 too old for a pastor to play softball; and many more.
This is the last time I will send this out by email (unless someone asks.) That way, I won’t be cluttering your inbox. If you are interested, you can find this at http://chickenroadwisdom.blogspot.com/ I intend to leave the comments on unless they get out of hand.
Bill
This is not my first time falling off the writer’s wagon. There is always the possibility that it won’t be my last either. It has always amazed me how hard it is to develop good habits and how fragile those good habits really are. Eating right, exercising, reading and writing daily; these are so hard to get going and so easy to lay aside. On the other hand, that 9 PM bowl of ice cream, while relaxing in your recliner and watching the Braves seems so natural (and habit forming.)
At least some of my friends have asked me if my computer was broken. It is not broken, merely neglected. I really want to get back to writing things, so I am going to make a commitment to post at least once a week. I want to include all of the dozen years, or so, worth of stuff I have written too. So I intend to write my new stuff and mix in the old that doesn’t seem stale. Hopefully, it will all be fresh enough for public consumption.
When I began talking about needing to get back to putting things on paper, my sweet bride went and got her journal and shared two quotes with me:
“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.” Aristotle
And, “Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.” Churchill
The first quote is motivating to me. The second quote makes me wonder what she is thinking about my new plans. She says that she read the second quote to me just because it was the next one in her journal. We’ll see.
In a writer’s conference this spring, I heard Lauretta Hannon say, “write now, worry later.” I will try to put that into practice. I do have stories. In the coming week and months, I’ll tell you about Bible School, Father’s day, and an old railroad man; the tale of the dancing undertaker (I have pictures); why my brother’s recliner hurts his back; how Chicken Road got its name; Only halfway home but broken and OUT, subtitled: is 50 too old for a pastor to play softball; and many more.
This is the last time I will send this out by email (unless someone asks.) That way, I won’t be cluttering your inbox. If you are interested, you can find this at http://chickenroadwisdom.blogspot.com/ I intend to leave the comments on unless they get out of hand.
Bill
Why “The Wisdom of Chicken Road?”
The short answer is that just plain ole “Chicken Road” was already taken. It is not active, but someone beat me to it nine years ago, long before I knew what a blog was.
The wisdom part is not me, for sure. I lived on Chicken road for over 34 years. When I left, I took part of it with me and I think about it often. My family had lived there for over 50 years when my mother, the last of them, died. There were a lot of stories, and a lot of wisdom there. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents and brother spent a lot of time there. They all taught me lessons; life lesson. I didn’t know them all, but I learned from them.
I hope to write some of those lessons here so that that I won’t be the last generation to learn from William Wesley, Rosa Irene, George Elwyne, Georgia Ellen, Fred Houser, Freddie Paul, James Leroy, Rosa Belle, Rebecca Irene and James Elwyne. Each of them have a story all their own and I want my children to know them. Of course there will be other stories too, stories about small town living in the south and places that there will never be a book written about. But these are stories that shouldn’t die, at least not yet.
The wisdom part is not me, for sure. I lived on Chicken road for over 34 years. When I left, I took part of it with me and I think about it often. My family had lived there for over 50 years when my mother, the last of them, died. There were a lot of stories, and a lot of wisdom there. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents and brother spent a lot of time there. They all taught me lessons; life lesson. I didn’t know them all, but I learned from them.
I hope to write some of those lessons here so that that I won’t be the last generation to learn from William Wesley, Rosa Irene, George Elwyne, Georgia Ellen, Fred Houser, Freddie Paul, James Leroy, Rosa Belle, Rebecca Irene and James Elwyne. Each of them have a story all their own and I want my children to know them. Of course there will be other stories too, stories about small town living in the south and places that there will never be a book written about. But these are stories that shouldn’t die, at least not yet.
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