A corker of a mechanic

By necessity I learned auto mechanics.  When pastor's salary qualifies him for poverty level benefits, he finds ways of saving money.  One of those ways is to eliminate (or at least reduce) the obscene price of auto repairs.  So I used to change the oil in all my cars, including the filters and make minor mechanical repairs.  So it was not strange for me to replace the fuel filter on our old, green Pontiac station wagon.  That was 30 years ago.  Cars were mechanical contraptions way back then.  Now they are just a large piece of computer hardware.

Now it so happened that at that point in our lives Barbara was working for the transportation department of Modesto Junior College as a secretary.  She got to know the "boys" who were bus drivers and mechanics.  It was very natural, therefore, for her to ask them about any problems I might be experiencing in my efforts as home mechanic.  We had a cute VW bug as well as the green monster wagon.  As each of our kids reached that magic plateau of driving eligibility, they learned how to operate the four-on-the-floor stick of the VW.  Everybody loved that "scooter", and they still hold it against me for turning it in for that stupid Sapporo.  Whenever all eight of us were traveling, however, the choice of comfort was the green monster.  There was no seat belt law in those days.  (Yes, I am very old indeed.)  Two or three kids could always stretch out in the back on a mattress in the bed of the wagon. 

The fourth of July was approaching, and I was having a problem with the green monster.  It would start and idle normally, but as soon as I tried to put it in gear and pull away from the curb, the monster would cough and quit on me.  We were planning to drive from Modesto over to the San Jose area to see relatives and enjoy fireworks with them, and we needed to use the green monster for that.  So Barbara asked her buddies at MJC for suggestions.  I wasn't too proud to try them all.  Nothing seemed to cure the Pontiac of the feebles.

We put it up to a vote among the kids.  Shall we spend the fourth here, or shall we cram everyone into the VW bug and go see uncle John?  Uncle John won the vote.  Did you ever see the circus clown act in which a dozen clowns climb out of some miniature vehicle?  They had nothing on the Keller family.  Philip found enough room behind the tiny back seat to contort his body.  Two kids sat on the back seat, each with another kid on his lap.  Baby Jonathan sat on his mother's lap as she rode "shotgun".  It was an 80 mile trip, and only once did the crew insist on stopping to stretch.  I wonder if anyone was watching.  At least no traffic cop was looking.  Even in the dark ages we must have been violating some existing law.

Some days later, out of desperation, I made a more radical check of the Pontiac.  Some of the boys from the traffic department, when they heard that I had recently changed the fuel filter, suggested that I check to make sure it was not a faulty part.  One of the laws of mechanics says that if you have recently worked on a part of the car, it is most likely that it is the recent change that is at fault.  So I tore it all apart and carefully examined every part.  Uh oh!  Now I remember that when I disassembled the gas line in order to install the filter that the siphon effect was spilling my fuel onto the ground.  I solved that problem by finding a tiny cork to plug the line.  To my complete embarrassment I found the cork still doing it's job.  It seems the cork had turned at an angle just enough for a trickle of gasoline to flow through.  But when I stomped the gas pedal and the carburetor gasped for a flood of fuel, it was still getting the tiny trickle, so it coughed, sputtered and stalled.

You can imagine Barbara's buddies at MJC holding their sides and wetting their pants after she told them.

She's a delight!

If you see a twinkle in my eye, it must be a reflection of my great granddaughter, Lillianna Jeannette Christian. She is only four, but she's a delight.  She is computer savvy.  She asks to play the games on my phone, and when I let her (of course) she asked me to help her because she was stuck.  When I looked, she had begun downloading games to the phone all on her own.  Only this time it was stuck because the program was asking for my credit card number!  "No, Lilly, we only get the games that are free."

We were playing a kid's game on the computer which required the player to duplicate the ordered cake for the bakery.  When the cake is mismatched, the chief baker comes out to bawl out the player.  Since Lilly does not yet read, I have to read it for her. He says something like, "That cake was not what the customer ordered!  You have to match the picture."  Yadda yadda.  This time I decided to entertain her by reading these lines in character.  My voice was loud and gruff.  Lilly reached over her shoulder and patted my face.  "Calm down, Papa, calm down."

She enjoys helping her Papa water the plants in the back yard.  I fill a watering can with water and she pours it on the most remarkable places.  (You don't think I would trust her to hold a spouting hose, do you?)    In spite of my efforts she usually gets a little wet during this activity.

Now her fifth birthday is approaching, and watch out world!  Her mother asked her what she wanted for her birthday, and she responded, "A dirt bike."  Please tell me where a little tyke comes up with an idea like that.  "No, Lilly, you're not getting a a dirt bike for your birthday."  "What else do you want?"  "A boat."  Do you get the idea some meddling adult has been whispering in her ear?  "No, Lilly, you're not getting a boat.  Now think about it.  What would you really like for your birthday?"  Her mother reported to me that she was stopped at a red light so she could see in the rear view mirror her eyes peering up and a very thoughtful look configuring her little face.  "A driver." she said.  A what!?  "A driver."  What would you do with a driver?  Where do you want to go?  "A driver could take me to see you at work."  I didn't know the concept of a driver was even in the vocabulary of a four year old.  I conjured up a distorted image of "Driving Miss Daisy".  She's either been watching the wrong shows on TV or some mischievous adult has been playing games with her head.

In the Tomb

It rather frightened me when I took the call to serve the OPC in Wilmington, DE.  I was leaving a tiny new church plant in Neptune, NJ to be the pastor of the fifth largest church in our denomination.  They were going to hire a secretary for me because they finally realized how much work the former pastor had laid upon his shoulders.  Jay Adams was my senior pastor at the time, and I asked him what I was going to do with a secretary.  She can't write my sermons for me.  Jay said, "Put her between you and the phone.  She'll be worth more than 6 assistants."  And that is just what happened.  It was nice to have a charming buffer between you and the irate church member.

But there was no place in the building that was built to be an office.  They took a large closet and made it a tiny office.  We had one window, but being below ground level we could only see daylight from the window well dug below ground level for the purpose.  We had two nice desks in there, but the space was so limited that the desks reached from one wall to the opposing wall with no space between them.  On the counter space immediately behind us as we sat at our desks was the mimeograph machine on which we printed bulletins and other documents.  Needless to say that I spent as little time as necessary in the office.  I set up a nice desk at home, using a varnished wood door supported by two metal filing cabinets of the right hight.  That made a mammoth desk on which I could spread out all my books and papers needed for my current studies.

Vit Paul, my secretary, had an ironic sense of humor.  She named the office "the tomb".  We had to leave the door open all the time for fear of claustrophobia or lack of oxygen or both.  When Presbytery realized that I now had a secretary they elected me Clerk.  I could hand my rough drafts to Vit for her to transcribe into the numbered pages of the Presbytery minute book.  Bottom line was, the time the church saved me by hiring a secretary, was more than used up by my responsibilities as Clerk of Presbytery.

Then there was the day we had a fierce thunderstorm.  Unless you have lived in the east, you do not know what a thunderstorm actually is.  To get the effect you may sit in your car while you get junior to pour a bucket of water slowly over the windshield.  It couldn't have been more than 30 feet from my front door to the car in the driveway, but if I didn't use an umbrella I would be soaked to the skin getting to the car.  This thunderstorm struck on a Sunday afternoon, as I remember.  I was concerned that the tomb (office) might be leaking since it was underground.  I drove over to the church to investigate.  Now a truly wise minister realizes this is a trustee concern.  He learns how to delegate labor.  But I was not a truly wise minister.  My concern about water was not without merit.  When I stepped into the tomb I could see the water above the sill of the window about four inches.  It looked like an aquarium.  And not unexpectedly, the water was leaking copiously through the cracks into the tomb (office).  Instinctively I dashed to the window and opened it!  This swift action of mine, of course, brought that four inches of water immediately onto the floor of the tomb.  So I closed it, of course.  Why, I cannot now tell you.  I think I was hoping the water would still be there in the well instead of on the floor.  At this point I did what I should have done in the first place.  I called one of the trustees and reported the mess.

Aren't there certain instances in everyone's life that are good to recall just for the purpose of maintaining a modicum of humility?

Zoo trip

These are only a few of the funny animals you can see at the zoo. We buy annual membership in the L A Zoo Association, and usually go twice or more every year.

My personal favorite is the giraffe. They are so gracefully lanky, and they stride with majestic symphony of sinews and frame. They remind me of a slender model, walking the runway with beautifully patterned clothing.

Lilly, my almost 5 year old great granddaughter, remembers the last time we visited the zoo that her "papa" didn't get to visit his favorite exhibit: the giraffes. So this time we planned to see them first.

Of course I lingered there as long as was seemly under the circumstances with several other people in our party and several other animals to observe.

And what zoo trip is complete without seeing the monkeys? Of course this monster is not a monkey, but close enough. This giant orangutan spent most of his time in the little shade he would find. Sometimes he looked out at the people to see these silly creatures who kept gathering outside his home. No, this variety does not throw excrement at the public. We have visited primates that do this in our past zoo experiences.

One of his shady spots is found next to the glass in one of the observation pavilions. When he is resting there he is about 4 inches from my hand as it is held against my side of the glass. Lilly took very cautious steps toward this heap of fur that was so close. Just then he rolled over and lifted his Kong-like hand up to the glass. Wow! Lilly instantly jumped backward about two feet. It was a creepy, overwhelming sight for anyone, but especially for a human small enough to fit in that hand.

Lilly's brother, David, is our wind-up toy. He goes like crazy, bouncing as he runs. He hasn't yet learned how to walk, just run. But when he winds down he really crashes. Water vapor was pumped into the air around the umbrellas that overshadow the picnic tables where we ate. Some of that water damped the pavement near us, and little David kept trying to make it splash by stomping his adorable little feet on the wet spots. But eventually he succumbed, and there was no reviving him once he hit the wall.

Two year olds

Aren't they fun! Now that I am a great grandfather, I can enjoy these raw mannered, miniature human beings without bearing responsibility for their embarrassing behavior. Last night I was reminded of this by my own great granddaughter in Souplantation. She was running wild, and as a two year old she is very good at it. There are only two time references in the mind of a two: now and never. When you don't give them what they want right now, their understanding is that they will NEVER get it. At this age a child is incapable of registering a quiet complaint, of course. Instead the body gyrates as we hear high frequency vocalizations worth many decibels. At Souplantation everyone has an interesting tray in front of himself/herself. Cassie made the rounds, pointing to this drink and to that interesting entree, even sticking her cute little finger into messy things without licking off the residue.

We see ourselves in the bald-faced bid for attention, and the unabashed demand that it's all about me! We do it with such practised disguise. It will take them several years to learn to pull this off with deceptive and convoluted reasoning. That is what we learn as adults, but the basic concern about self is just as ugly as it is raw in a two year old.

It is somewhat amusing to see the way adults behave when a two year old is in the crowd. All these mature conversationalists suddenly become blithering idiots. In any group there is one or two personalities whose natural tendency is to dominate the direction of conversation. Not when there is a two in the group. Adult conversation never gets very far before it is interrupted by the needs (demands?) of a toddler. And nobody seems to mind. I know when it is my great granddaughter, my mind (if not my mouth) says, "She can do no wrong." I'm such a terrible theologian when I am around her!

When we are in a restaurant without family, I know I search the other booths for the eyes of a little one. I love to flirt with babies and toddlers. I've found an interesting thing: there is a wide variety of responses I get from kids. Some eyes are full of mischief, and they are so happy to respond to the faces I make with grins or grimaces to entertain me.

Then there are some kids who studiously refuse to make eye contact with me.  I surmise by the family behavior (especially a humorless authority figure in the family who is making unreasonable demands) that life for a kid in this family is a drudgery. Surely they will run away or get married (do they still do that?) at a very early age.

The Paper Route

It's a rite of passage for a boy to have a paper route.  He learns to have a little responsibility, and gets a Jr. grade lesson on running his own business.  When I was just a lad I had a paper route near my neighborhood in the Crenshaw district in south Los Angeles.  It was not very scary territory way back then, and I was never in danger, except the danger of going into debt.  Normally the boy must buy his papers from the company, and he sells them for a profit.  But if he gets lazy and doesn't finish collecting from all his customers, he is in danger of coming up short of his bill.  Now there was one small  complication to my route, and that was the fact that this neighborhood newspaper was thrown on everyone's porch whether they ordered it or not.  I was told to ask for a quarter a month for this service.  I was begging--soliciting a handout.  Even then 25 cents was not really that much, consequently many people payed me cheerfully.  Others were belligerent and cursed me for cluttering their porch.  So another benefit of this paper route was to learn human nature at ground zero.

Much later in life my boys had a paper route.  One boy prepared with his clothes neatly laid aside the night before, in order to get a good start out the door.  When the other boy did this route he was often heard banging around, looking for socks, shoes or some other necessity at 5 in the morning.  We were living east then, and I had mercy on my boys when it was snowing.  We packed the papers in our VW and I drove the route while they would direct me.  There was an infamous dog at one of the homes, who leaped against the door, barking loudly.  I think he even broke glass in that door on one occasion.  It so happened one snowy day that my third--and smaller--son begged to go with us.  As we came to the home with the ferocious dog, my smallest son wanted to deliver the paper.  There was no denying him.  So he carefully tiptoed up to the door, delivered the paper, and turned to come back to the car, when suddenly this barking, growling beast came racing out from behind a bush in the yard.  Our little guy ran with a panic for the safety of the car, but the dog actually bit him on the derriere before he made it.  He was not really hurt, but he was thoroughly terrorized.  However, he provided a howl of a story that we have never tired of telling.

Happy birthday, America

The Moore home in Jamestown

It had to be the hand of God else we would have never made it. When I read McCullough's "1776" I was on the edge of my chair (figuratively at least). There was a time when I was certain the Patriots had no way they could win. British troops were more experienced and outnumbered us. We lost ground again and battle after battle until Washington crossed the Delaware and surprised the celebrating Hessians at Trenton.

When Patrick Henry et al. signed the Declaration of Independence, they were sticking their heads in a noose. That was an act of treason! The Brits had barricaded New York harbor, and there was a time the Continental Congress had to move from Philadelphia for fear of capture.

I'm afraid I would have been a loyalist instead of a Patriot. I would have felt constrained by Romans 13 to submit to the powers that be (Britain) and take my lumps (taxes).

Washington must have been quite a man. Where ever he rode through his troops he stirred up courage and loyalty among them. When it came time to elect a president of this upstart nation, he was the unanimous choice of every party. Northerners and Virginians (southerners) didn't understand or trust one another, even then. But everyone seemed to agree on Washington (even though he was a Virginian). He also had a way of charming the ladies at a banquet or a ball. Men, women, northerners and southerners all considered him a man of integrity in leadership.

Then there was the special appeal of old Ben Franklin. I understand he had quite a way with the ladies as well. But it was the unusual esteem of the French for Franklin the inventor that helped encourage the French to help us fend off the British and win our independence. They thought Franklin to be a genius because of his experiments with electricity. Franklin and John Adams were very different in character. Adams was a no-nonsense negotiator with strictly business on his mind, when they were an emissary to court the French. He was a prig. Franklin was more amiable, liked to party and knew when to drop a word appropriately.

On our trip east we saw the Moore home, the place where Cornwallis surrendered to Washington. We were told that Cornwallis refused to deal with these rebel British subjects, and sent a representative while he stayed in his quarters, ostensibly feeling ill.

Such little pieces of providence fit into the time line along the way. Coincidences and finesse along with courage and determination not to let this nation across the Atlantic to "tread on me". There are men to thank for our freedom to be sure, but those who are alert to the details of history must ultimately thank God. I'm proud to be an American. Happy birthday, America!