Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...

​ I have a head full of jokes that are locked by keywords. I don’t know what the keywords are, but I’ll stop a conversation and start telling a joke when I hear one.       It’s the way my brain works: triggers and keywords. Today a couple of triggers pulled a memory or two out of cold storage, warmed them up, and set them free.       I built my son a workbench when he was six. Eleven years later, it’s still sitting inside my front door. The first trigger was a paint brush that was tinted yellow by the swing I painted last summer. It’s hanging from a hook on the pegboard.  The second trigger was a picture of an old John Deere tractor I saw in one of those vehicles for sale magazines.       My grandpa had a 1939 John Deere. In his garage there was a shelf above the ladder rack. It was packed with stuff. I have that in common with my grandpa. I have stuff, too. I haven’t found a use for much of the stuff, but I keep telling myself I will.       Back to grandpa’s shelf. He kept some paint

     ​ I bumped into a man stocking shelves in a local store in a nearby town. He apologized for having to turn his wheelchair around in front of me. I told him that I wasn’t in a hurry, and it wasn’t a big deal.         I told him that he was an inspiration. In a time when able bodied people claimed they couldn’t find a job, a man in a wheelchair was working harder than most of today’s young people would want to.         He told me he didn’t want to be an inspiration because of his handicap. He wanted to be an inspiration for his love of God. He was humble because God says that we shouldn’t be prideful. He did what he did because God gave him the strength to carry on each day. His body wasn’t a reflection of him. The Holy Spirit and what filled his head and heart was what made him who he was. He    shared the gospel every chance he got.        He said that he often talked to people that came in the store about Jesus Christ freeing us from sin by dying on the cross. He said it was diff

​     I’ve noticed a change in myself that I didn’t plan upon.  I’m not as cold blooded as I once thought I was. Some things upset me more than they used to. I can’t watch the news anymore. If I see a story about someone hurting a child or a woman, I come unhinged.       I’m glad that the legal system works the way it does. I’d be a vigilante if this were the old west.  I’d travel from one town to the next with a noose tied to my saddle looking for people that hurt a child or a woman.      I’m not talking about corporal punishment. A good butt whippin’ kept me on the straight   and narrow more than once. I can remember making choices to avoid one.       What I’m talking about is using a fist or weapon against a woman or child. No one should have to live in fear because of a coward who believes his “punishment” of a family member is necessary.       I talked to a police officer in Indianapolis a few years ago. I stopped him in the Castleton Square mall to thank him for his service and t

​         There are some unique things about being from a large family. When I was young, we were very close. My cousins were all big parts of my life. I visited aunts and uncles with my parents and later by myself.        There was always someone to visit and share memories with.        When we started families of our own, we didn’t have as much time for one another as we did before. We still saw each other at grandpa and grandma’s house.  Once grandpa and grandma were gone, we ran into each other less and less.        There’s a funny thing about family that loves one another and drifts apart. The feelings you had when you drifted apart remain. Years may pass, but those feelings remain.        Sometimes, the only time we see our relatives is a funeral. The worst is when the funeral is theirs. You stand with family members and reminisce about the past for a while, then you follow to the final resting place.       We promise to stay in touch, but for the most part we don’t. We get back