G.B.B.

“Where are your underwear?” she asked.

This is a true story (best I remember) of my short career in retail. It was near Christmas break of my sophomore year in college at the University of Tulsa. I noticed on a bulletin board in the student union that Sears was hiring seasonal help. I applied and got a job. After an orientation about the history of Sears and some basic training, I was given a name tag and assigned to the vinyl record/8-track tape department. That suited me just fine.

Christmas shopping was just beginning to get traction so there were times during my shift that things were pretty slow, giving me time to sort the records in their racks and do some browsing among the stereos adjacent to my department. It was here that I learned of a marketing strategy that Sears and other retailers, but especially Sears, used effectively. It was called the G-B-B plan: Good, Better, Best. On a shelf there would be three hi-fi systems or three lawnmowers or three cameras, A Good choice, a Better choice and the BEST. Each step up would add features, quality and a higher price tag. We’ll come back to this.

One night a couple came up to me and asked me to recommend a hi-fi system for their teen-aged son, a Christmas gift. In my browsing of the systems I had picked a favorite so I took them over to the shelf and pointed it out to them. They had some questions and I explained what I liked about it. As we were visiting, a real SalesMan came over. Their nametags had their name in red. They were on commission and sold the big stuff like TVs and stereos. “I’ll take over here,” he announced. The dad said, “This young man is helping us.” “He’s not qualified!” instructed the pro. The mother said, “Either he makes this sale or we’re going somewhere else.” “Fine!” said the pro, “As soon as you decide, I’ll ring it up for you. He (pointing to me) doesn’t work in this department, so his employee key number can’t be entered into the register for this sale.” He wanted that commission.

At some point a manager got involved and somehow the sale of the stereo and a bunch of records to go with it was credited to me. The next day I was transferred to the toy department.

That year the popular boys toy was a remote-controlled vehicle called “Dune Buggy Wheelies”. They flew off the shelves like Cabbage Patch kids in the 80s. I think they sold for like $5.99. I felt like I spent most of my shift each night telling people that we were sold and offering an alternative. “How about a Red Ryder BB Gun?”

“He’ll shoot his eye out!”

One day the phone in the toy department rang. I answered it. It was a Sears catalog store in another part of town. They had received an order for four Dune Buggy Wheelies for a customer, but the customer had found them elsewhere and didn’t want them. They would need to be taken to our store for sale. A light bulb went on in my head and I told them I would tell the manager. I didn’t. After work, I drove to that store. When I got there, I asked if they by chance had any Dune Buggy Wheelies. “Why, yes we have four.”

“I’ll take them!”

Early in my next shift, someone asked desperately about Dune Buggy Wheelies. “We’re out, but if you’re willing to pay a little more, I know where you can get one or four.” I priced mine for $10. I made a few bucks, was severely reprimanded by the manager of the toy department when he found out, and was transferred to the menswear department.

The next shift, a lady came up to me as I was sorting ties or something. “May I help?”

“Yes,” she said, “Where are your underwear?”

“I’m wearing them,” I said. How could I not?

And that was the end of my career in retail.

But, let’s talk about G-B-B; not as sales strategy but as a way to take measure of a life well-lived. I heard someone say the other day, “Are you living your best life?” They were not asking me individually, but I did ponder it for a moment, and said to myself, “Probably not. But it’s not my fault! If it weren’t for this pandemic… If I hadn’t lost so much of my retirement savings in the 2008 crash… If we could push the flush handle on Washington D.C…” You know the song.

Of course that’s all baloney. If I’m not smart enough, wise enough, old enough, and spiritual enough to see that the goodness, betterness, or bestness of my life does not hinge on stuff outside of me; shame on me.

How about collectively as a human race? Relatively speaking, right now, are we being our good selves, our better selves or our best selves. Or, have we slipped to a different tiered metric, something like: Bad, Worse, Worst. And, which direction are we going?

There was this guy named Nicodemus, for all appearances, a thoughtful guy. He came to Jesus one night with a question or maybe a few questions. To the big one, Jesus gave the answer we’ve all heard hundreds of times: “Ye must be born again.” (I’m pretty sure Jesus didn’t say, “Ye”, but that’s the way King James wanted it.)

Not to put words in Jesus’ mouth, but what if, maybe he meant, in addition to that big one—the spiritual rebirth—we should be born again EVERY day. Maybe that’s what the dawn is for.

Let’s assume that sometimes we get weary, we lose focus and inspiration. I don’t know about you but sometimes I trade dreams for despair these days. I feel like I could use a rebirth. Maybe sometimes, not just in a chronological sense, in our hearts, our souls, our thoughts we become old and cranky; maybe a little narrow-minded. What if we could start new, seeing with eyes of wonder: like a child.

Some days I live life Good enough. Some days I strive for Better. Every now and then, for a moment maybe, I live my Best self. Not often enough though.

Back in that Christmas season of 1970, during my short stint as a salesman at Sears I got hit with a hard slap of reality. Maybe it helped to explain some of what I believe the manager of the menswear department called a “smart-ass, college-boy, wisenheimer” type attitude.

One evening, I returned home after work to find a letter from the Selective Service informing me that my lottery number for the draft was coming up, and giving me the date that I would report for my physical for the Army. I assumed that I would be heading to Vietnam soon to fight in a war I despised and had protested against. Fortunately the war ended before my number was called. Unfortunately, many of my friends and family were not as lucky, or whatever you want to call it.

Many are comparing the current state of our nation and world to the tumultuous times of the late 60s and early 70s. I don’t know that the comparison helps anything. We don’t seem to learn much from our past.

I do know this: we are better than the collective life we are living right now. You can see glimpses of it in many places. You can also see the American Dream twisted by greed and arrogance. I just sat through a two day conference on leadership. It is one of the premier leadership conferences in the world. It is even called The Leadership Summit. The resounding theme of the meeting this year (held virtually for the first time ever) was that effective, impactful leadership is characterized by empathy and humility. I would go so far as to say that without those two, what you are left with isn’t leadership at all, but rather something akin to “bad company corrupting good character.” —1 Corinthians 15:33.

Don’t worry. I’m not getting ready to offer an alter call. I am going to continue to self-evaluate, hoping to see beyond my blindspots and cynicism, praying for a new birth everyday, seeking a BETTER version of myself, shooting for an occasionaly BEST-Of, and counting on that being GOOD enough; for now.

SIX THINGS

Part 1: SIX DECADES

I had plans.

For a while, there seemed to be a lot of talk about tattoos. I was spending time with young artists then so maybe the heightened discussion was more about proximity than time. Occasionally, I would be asked if I had a tattoo or would I ever get one. Maybe; if I could think of something worthy of the pain and permanence. One day I decided, that if I were to get one (which I haven’t) it would be this, a simple sentence in maybe Courier or Helvetica: “BEST BY SUMMER OF 69”. Yes, a “best buy” date like on a carton of milk. I wrote a post about this back in October 2018.

Why the “summer of 69”? I graduated from high school in 1969, and still find that summer memorable and good. I’m sure I’m guilty of ignoring the counsel of Ecclesiastes (7:10):

“Do not say, “’Why were the old days better than these?’” For it is not wise to ask such questions.”

But as Bryan Adams sang in his song, “Summer of 69”:

Oh, when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever
And if I had the choice
Yeah, I'd always wanna be there
Those were the best days of my life

Oh, yeah Back in the summer of '69, oh

Here we are in 2020 and I’m in the middle of the summer of my 69th year, speeding toward the completion of my 6th decade. I had plans to celebrate this summer. I actually designed a t-shirt for my grandkids for the “Summer Of Pops!”

Remember the “Summer of George” on Seinfeld? It was kind of like that.

And just as the Summer of George didn’t go as planned, the Summer of Pops was doomed by mid-March. Maybe all of this is punishment for my arrogance in declaring a summer of big ideas, fun and adventure for myself.

While my 69th summer has not gone as planned at all, in many ways it is shaping up to be one of the most memorable. I’ll admit to a heightened awareness of almost everything—the bad, the ugly and THE GOOD. I savor each rare time that we get to be with our kids and grandkids; friends and family.

Just the other day we got to spend time with Jeremiah who is in his first summer—truly a summer of firsts for him. He is beautiful, bright-eyed and curious. There were times I was sure he was going to give himself whiplash trying to keep his eyes on his big brother who was bouncing around the room like a pinball. Maybe that’s what I mean by heightened awareness—for all of us in some ways. We are seeing life through a lens we’ve never seen before, and feeling life as if all our nerve endings were on high alert—whether it’s our 69th summer or the 1st.

Jeremiah and Malachi

Part 2: SIX FEET

That’s the definition of “social distancing”. I can live with that. I am an introvert—confirmed by testing and analysis. So, all is well.

Probably the first store I will visit when and if I ever leave my house again will be a bookstore. I love bookstores. I love the quiet isolation. I don’t like it when someone comes down the same aisle I’m on. Virus or not, I don’t want to be within six feet of another person on a bookstore aisle. But that’s really more like physical distancing isn’t it; at least for me. Whatever it is, it creates a challenge to relationships that calls for a creative response.

For example, my mentor Doug Manning decided to offer a grief counseling group using Zoom, the online video meeting tools. Word spread and now he has a problem. People have raised their hands all across the land and even in Canada and Australia wanting to join in. How do you do a meeting across time zones? Apparently, Barbara Striesand was right: “People who need people are the luckiest people in the world.”

The social distancing I can deal with, even appreciate, but the relational distancing is weighing heavy. Let me explain. Maslow says one of the key psychological needs of us humans is BELONGING. I agree. Belonging is more than a membership card or knowing the secret handshake. Heck, I have an American Express card that says, “Member since 1989” which makes it one of the groups I’ve belonged to the longest, but I don’t know anyone there. I don’t know if us AMEX members have a team song or club meetings. It just doesn’t feel very relational.

I want to mention a couple of other groups I belong to in one fashion or another just to explore relationships and belonging a little more deeply. Let’s start with the family of my Amazing-Missus. Even before we dated I felt welcomed from the start. I was invited to eat meals around their table (which was an offer only a fool would pass up). Once I began to date their daughter/sister the welcome warmed into something else, a sort of acceptance, but not yet what I would call belonging.

We married young. I was afraid if I didn’t “put a ring on it” right away, she would see the light and send me packing. On our wedding day she was 18 years and 3 days old; I was 21. I’m pretty sure there were some in the community that were surprised that our 9-month anniversary came and went without news. “Why would E.J. and Betty’s baby daughter Arlene marry him, unless…”, must have been whispered among a few of the church-lady circles. Just to throw them off we waited eight years to have our first bouncing baby boy.

After the wedding, I felt officially like I belonged. The Cox clan are generous, grace-giving folks. Her siblings are my friends and I cherish their company, their wisdom and their sister. But even in family, belonging extends only so far. Although she has been a part of the family she and I have made for 48 years and was a member of her nuclear family for 18, that is still HER family. There is a bond there, it is beautiful and it is as it should be. I belong and am a part of the story until they start telling stories about their childhood days, then I step to the margins with the other brother-in-law and sisters-in-law. We’re okay with that. We’ve heard the stories so many times we feel like they are our stories too.

As I’ve said, I’m okay with the current definition of social distancing and some physical distancing. I could not bear relational distancing.

Part 3: SIX MILES

The other group where I BELONGED for a time was a community, an actual little town. You could draw a six-mile circle and pretty well include everyone with maybe the exception of a farmer here or there. There were some who said of this proud little community, “If you’re not born there, your not from there, and you’re never going to belong there.” That’s probably been said or felt about many tight-knit communities. If you can drive through the town cemetary and see only about six family names, you’re likely to live in the margins there.

A little more than a year ago, we drove to Dubach, Louisiana, to spread some of the ashes of my dad who passed. It was his hometown. We wanted to leave the ashes at the graves of his parents and some of his siblings. As is the case with many small towns, there were more headstones in the cemetary than actual living residents of the town. And in this one 90% of them seemed to be named “Fuller”. There were an equal number of Colvins, Hamiltons, and Smiths. (I’m using a new math here.)

Back to Hinton. We moved to the town of Hinton in 1991. I would be working at the bank, in a non-banking role, thankfully. But mainly I would be the youth minister at the Baptist church. A role I loved. Despite the conventional wisdom about not being able to BELONG if you came in as an outsider, we always felt more than welcome. It had little to do with me. My Amazing-Missus and our two sons put down roots there and added to the beauty of this community.

We now live beyond the six-mile circle, but a part of us will always belong there. That’s the way it is with relationships. They can withstand some geographical distancing as long is there is some tie that binds.

As I said, I can endure a six-plus-mile geographical distancing. I cannot bear the relational distancing. I need to be a better friend. To all those I’ve offended and hurt; I am sincerely sorry and in need of forgiveness.

Part 4: SIX DEGREES

You’ve probably heard about the theory of six degrees of seperation? Check this out from The Guardian:

In a world of 6.6 billion people, it does seem hard to believe. The theory of six degrees of separation contends that, because we are all linked by chains of acquaintance, you are just six introductions away from any other person on the planet. Recently researchers announced the theory was right - nearly. By studying billions of electronic messages, they worked out that any two strangers are, on average, distanced by precisely 6.6 degrees of separation. In other words, putting fractions to one side, you are linked by a string of seven or fewer acquaintances to Madonna, the Dalai Lama and the Queen.

You have probably said more than once: it’s a small world. You know when you’re talking to someone and you find out they know someone who went to school with your mom and…

Recently, I received a message from a girl I knew back in high school days. We went to different high schools but the same church. I haven’t seen her since those days. She messaged to ask about a relative of mine. I asked how she knew this person. Turns out she used to live next door to my uncle and knew him well. It’s a small world.

For all of our distancing, for all of our closing ourselves off and dividing into tribes, in all of the shrinking of our six-mile circles. It’s still a small world after all. It is still true that God SO loved the WORLD (whether we like them or not) that he became flesh and dwelt among us.

Part 5: SIX STEPS

Unless there’s a 12-Step program for pandemic gluttony, I’m going to strive for a Six-Step program of my own making. Surely I can manage that; one step at a time. Actually the first three of these come from Micah 6:8 in The Message.

Step 1.) Do what is fair and just to your neighbor.

Step 2.) Be compassionate and loyal in your love.

Step 3.) Don’t take yourself too seriously—take God seriously.

Step 4.) Listen.

Step 5.) Consider the lillies.

Step 6.) Remember the story of the Sixpence.

Part 6: SIXPENCE: The Story

“Every faculty you have, your power of thinking or of moving your limbs from moment to moment, is given you by God. If you devoted every moment of your whole life exclusively to His service you could not give Him anything that was not in a sense His own already. So that when we talk of a man doing anything for God or giving anything to God, I will tell you what that is really like.

“It is like a small child going to it’s father and saying, ‘Daddy, give me sixpence to buy you a birthday present.’ Of course, the father does, and he is pleased with the child’s present. It is all very nice and proper, but only an idiot would think that the father is sixpence to the good on the transaction. When a man has made these two discoveries God can really get to work. It is after this that real life begins. The man is awake now.”

—C. S. Lewis (1898-1963) in Mere Christianity

NOOKS AND CRANNIES

IT CAN HAVE A CERTAIN DESPERATION TO IT—we searched every nook and cranny. Or, you can describe your hoarding auntie—she has stuff crammed in every nook and cranny. Or, maybe it can prompt some sort of adventure—let’s explore every nook and cranny. Let’s talk about that one.

The Cambridge dictionary says that nooks and crannies are: every part of a place.

Dictionary.com says: Everywhere. This metaphoric idiom pairs nook, which has meant “an out-of-the-way corner” since the mid-1300s, with cranny, which has meant “a crack or crevice” since about 1440.

Since we’re going to go digging through nooks and crannies as a sort of adventure let’s start with the places. Places can be literal like an attic or basement, a library and even a book. Places can be your town, or your state, or beyond. Think about people like Lewis and his buddy Clark. As they trekked mapless across the continent it was pretty much all nooks and crannies. But, let’s go further, let’s say a place full of nooks and crannies can be your own mind and soul, your memories and your stories.

My adventure for now is sleuthing for goodness, truth and beauty in our modern day culture and in myself. I’m going to confess some despair, because in the thin, wide open, garishly-lit places of the 24-hour news cycles, politics, religion, social media, pop-culture, etc. I’m not finding much; goodness, truth, beauty that is. So, these must surely be in the nooks and crannies. I know they haven’t gone away completely. It’s just that most everything else is so loud, chaotic, shrill, flashing, strobing, grating, grinding, shallow, deceptive, false and dissimulating.

It sounds like I’m describing the Las Vegas strip. It’s kind of pretentious like that, but more pervasive and sneaky and ugly. I’ve been to Vegas twice: once for a trade show, once to accept an award for a web design project. I don’t like it at all. It’s not that I’m taking some moral highground, but I’ve been to Paris. I’ve been to New York many times. I would suggest that if you want to experience either, go there; not to some gaudy Vegas charade of those two great cities. (Although I would recommend seeing the 1963 film “Charade” starring Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn.)

Excuse me while I get my train back on the tracks.

Do you find all of this—our current state of affairs—a bit disorienting? I do. Do you sort of despise the “new normal”? I do. Do you long for something solid that you can count on? I realize this is beginning to sound like a set up for some product I’m selling like an herb or oil or potion, like a wand Harry or Hermione might have, or maybe a book or a sermon. Sorry.

I do have this though: there is goodness, truth and beauty all around us. There is a certain joy in the search and in the discovery. Looking in the nooks and crannies always promises a eureka moment. I often find them in song lyrics like this scripture turned popular song:

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven

Or, in a verse:

“So I say to you: Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” —Jesus

Sometimes we can find them vicariously. Surely by now you’ve heard the stories of Steve Hartman. He is the Sherlock Holmes of uncovering goodness, truth and beauty; along the road. Here is his Facebook page. Click and rejoice. Discover them through Steve’s encounters.

Where do you find goodness, truth and beauty?

THE EYES HAVE IT

FIND A DIFFERENT DOCTOR. That was the advice my Dad got from a friend a few years back. Mom and Dad, along with Mom’s siblings and their spouses, made a winter trip to south Texas. While there, Dad had a heart attack and ended up having by-pass surgery at the hospital in Harlingen, Texas. After several weeks of rehab there, I flew to Harlingen to drive them home in their motorhome.

As we were unhooking the motorhome, preparing for our departure, a number of their friends gathered around to wish them well. Several of the old guys were veterans of the heart surgery wing of a hospital. Each had some advice to offer. My mom was asking them all questions about a new heart-friendlier diet and exercise plan. She mentioned that switching to a low-sodium diet would be challenging for them. One of the old guys said, “My doc told me to lay off salt.” Mom asked, “What did you do?” His reply: “Found a different doctor.”

When it comes to lifestyle choices, you can always find an “expert” to back up your choice. Right? Whatever it may be. Back then we didn’t even have Google or Facebook. Now you can truly find support for most any theory or opinion you want to have. And of course, you can also find hearty disagreement.

Take this hot potato for example: masks or no-masks. There is the argument about effectiveness. You can find support for the safety of wearing one. You can find mockery if you do. Some will say they are thinking of others when they were their masks. Others will tell them they’ve sold their soul to Bill Gates and given up their Freedom. Some will say to those refusing to wear masks they have simply sold out to Trump. Those will respond that if you wear a mask you love AOC and hate statues. Some will say, “My doc says I should wear a mask becausee I’m old.” Some will respond, “Then find a different doctor.”

Believe it or not, this post is not about further arguing the point. I figure by this time everyone has made up their mind on the matter. This post is about something wonderful I’ve observed in the midst of mask-wearing. It happened first at an eatery. I won’t mention the name of the place except to say that they do have good chicken nuggets and they seem intent on making an art form of drive through and curbside service. My favorite item from this little joint though is their frosted coffee drink.

One afternoon on a social-distancing road trip, My Amazing-Missus and I decided to get one of these tasty treats. I put on my mask. All of the worker bees in the drive through had on theirs. When a young lady held out a tray with our drinks on it, I said, “Thank you.” And then it happened.

Something I never would have noticed had it not been for the masks—I noticed her eyes. After my “thank you”, she replied. I’m not certain what she said, her voice was muffled some by the mask. But I’m certain, she said, “My Pleasure!” And then she smiled———with her eyes.

We don’t leave the house much, but occasionally we pick up food curbside. I never miss the opportunity to look into the eyes of our masked servers. Hopefully, they can see the smile in mine. In case they can’t, I’ve also become a bigger tipper. Wouldn’t it be weird if somehow in the midst of diminishing humanity from arguing and side-taking, we might actually discover a beauty in our fellow strugglers by looking each other in the eyes and smiling.

Can excessive doses of CO2 from mask wearing cause one to become a sentimental old fool? I’ll have to Google that. I’m sure I can find someone that supports the notion.