With You Always

In the Catholic Lectionary, today is the Feast of the Ascension of the Lord. Forty days after Easter Christ was taken up to Heaven before the eyes of His Apostles, who still expected the earthly Kingdom of Israel restored. If you ever think you don't 'get' it, remember that neither did His closest followers at first. To add to their confusion the famous men in white appeared, asking, "Men of Galilee, why do you stare into the sky? This Jesus...will return." Yet in the Gospel of Mark read during today's Mass, we are left with Christ's promise, "I am with you always, until the end of the age."

It's a wonderful, consoling, hopeful, thrilling consolation. He is with us always. 

When we are dealing with death, He is there.

Illness? He holds our hand.

That aggravating coworker? Christ is by your side, ready to help you deal with that rascal with all the Christian Charity you can muster.

He is even there when we face too much. I am not one to believe that God never gives us more than we can handle. Neither do I believe in Jesus, take the wheel. We are here to do whatever job the Lord wants us to do. It's our task, not His. That might mean we are allowed to become overwhelmed precisely so that we get it in gear, to get our house in order, to be in a sense told to stop. You can't handle all that. Prioritize. Learn to focus. Do what you can and let go of what you can't. And Christ will still be there through it all for support.

His physical self left us. But Christ the Son of God remains with us as God. Until the end of the age. 

Easy Negotiations

Me Grandpa Joe, he didn't negotiate price. Oh, he'd allow his friend Amos to do so in his stead, so I'm probably playing a bit loose with this assertion. Still, Joe to my knowledge never himself negotiated a price.

I found this out on a trip through western Michigan with him, looking for a pump jack as I recall. I'm still not sure what a pump jack is but I know it had to do with the oil wells he was invested in back in the day, and I know they were big because we had to take his manual shift stake truck with the ten foot bed to carry one.

Anyhow, after driving for two days, two days of me learning to drive a stick I might add (so there were a lot of fits and spurts and stalled engines as I learned through trial by error) we ended up at his friend Ford's. Ford was his actual first name; I don't remember his last. Ford took us out into a field of various machinery, about in the middle of which was an old pump jack. It looked like an oversized grasshopper to me. Joe asked Ford what he wanted, and Ford told him. Joe took a drag on a cigarette, then just said kinda quietly, "I think I'll pass." We began the trip home.

Grandpa explained to me that a fella knows what his stuff is worth, and who was he to argue with that? I get what he means. I rarely negotiate myself, usually giving a simply yea or nay when dealing with someone one on one. And it ain't like we can typically negotiate anyway: at Kroger you pay what Kroger asks for groceries or you walk on by. I suppose I was just a bit miffed that, after lurching across the state and staying one long night in a tired old hotel, the journey was for naught. In the end though, I respect his point.

Religious Hockey

It's supposed to be true. But if not, truth should never get in the way of a good story, right?

Years ago, when I believe Gump Worsley was the goaltender of the Minnesota North Stars, a Minneapolis bar ran a contest where first prize was dinner for two with Worsley. A local guy won, and he took his teenage son with him for the supper.

The day after, a sportswriter claimed he had had a religious experience. He said that he walked into a restaurant the evening before and saw the Father, the Son, and the Goalie Host.

Not bad. Some people do treat hockey like a religion too.

Rising Pressure

The first thing they do when I walk into my doctor's office is take my pulse and my blood pressure. They put the machine on me yesterday and it read my BP at 182/88. "That's kind of high, isn't it?" I asked the nurse, the fear in my voice well within reason.

"These machines are always high," she assured me, clearly lacking the concern I felt she should experience. Well, okay, but 182 over 88? "The doctor will check it again when you see him." And he did, at a much better 138/74. Not terrific, but not particularly dangerous either.

The nurse is right though: their machines do always seem to be high. I've noticed that for years at my doctor's, and my BP is always better when they measure it old school during my exams. So my question is, Why do you use such inaccurate equipment? Why bother, if you don't like the results which are spit out?

The blood pressure machine I have at home (I take my own BP most mornings on my PCP's suggestion) typically has me in the 130-140 over 75 or 76 range, so I trust when he checks it the old fashioned way. But if the unit I bought at a drugstore in Cedarville, MI (my old one conked out when I was up north last year, not that that's important for you to know yet it does help pad my blog) for all of forty bucks is reasonably accurate, why can't the Detroit Medical Center find one more reliable than what it's got?

Maybe there are some questions which simply aren't answerable. Like, why can't the Cocoa Puffs bird eat his cereal in a calm, rational manner? 

Grandpaw Hutchins' dogs

Me Grandpa Hutchins had a couple of pets over the years which, for whatever reason, stand out in my mind. I guess they simply impressed me somehow.

One he called Watch. Watch was the largest collie I have ever seen. He looked like Lassie on steroids. Lots of steroids. He weighed, the vet told Grandpa, 135 pounds. That's a lot of collie.

Watch was a playful animal though. That's not bad until you take his weight into account. He'd knock you down without any evil intent. He was just being man's best friend.

Grandpa had another little beagle named Tommy. I liked old Tommy; maybe that's why I gravitate towards beagles, so much as I might gravitate towards any particular breed of dog.

What I remember most about Tommy was that he lost his voice when he was about 14 (84 in people years). He would start to bay as beagles do but only the first 'wrope' would come out. Yet his mouth kept silently opening and closing for several seconds, as though he had to complete the rest of the barking anyway.

Watch and Tommy. Two pretty good old dogs.

Rooney, Mickey Not Andy

As regular readers of this blog know, I've been told that my voice is unique. One wag remarked that I had a future on The Cartoon Network. A waitress insisted that I sounded like Jiminy Cricket. Several folks have told me that I sound like a local newscaster who's name escapes me this minute. My laugh is apparently quite distinct. And then on the phone yesterday a customer told me that I sound exactly like Mickey Rooney. Yes, the old actor who started out as Andy Hardy.

I suppose it's better to be known for something. But Jiminy Cricket? Andy Hardy? 

Well, here's a a clip of Andy Hardy. You tell me. And maybe it's the power of suggestion, but while watching that clip I do seem to hear me. I wonder if I would have stood a chance with Judy Garland...

Balky Marty

A few years ago I was at a Tigers game with an old friend. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. 

Cloyce and I are both fairly avid baseball fans. We know the rules and what to watch for, although if I may say I'm better at it than he is.

We were sitting along the first base side of the diamond, just about right in line with the pitcher. In this case it was a left hander, so we had a really good look at him. 

Before I go on you need to know what a balk is in baseball. Among other illegal actions, if the pitcher is ruled to have started his throwing motion he must either throw a pitch to the batter or throw to an occupied base, one with a runner on it. If he fails to do either, runners move up. It keeps the pitcher from faking his intentions.

At one point the Tigers had a runner on first; we were playing Baltimore. The Orioles pitcher barely lifted his right foot, then put it back down again without doing anything else. You had to watch very close to see it, but I caught it. "He balked!" I said out loud. The next instant the home plate umpire called time, indicated balk, and motioned the runner on first base to advance to second.

"How did you see that?" Cloyce asked, awed and amazed at my baseball prowess. 

"I came here to watch a game. Didn't you?" I asked in all haughtiness. I mean, you're supposed to see things like that if you're really paying attention, right? 

To this day Cloyce will occasionally look at me and ask, "Balk?," as though he still can't believe it. But hey. I call 'em as I see 'em.