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I attended Texas A&M University and was, in fact, a proud member of the Corps of Cadets. Not to mention the Fightin’ Texas Aggie Band, one of the finest military-style marching bands in the country. (If you don’t believe it, just ask any one of us! But I digress.)

Anyway, one common denominator of most college students (at least it was back when I was one) was the, shall we say, lamentable lack of funds. So to keep body and soul together, and hopefully earn a little extra spending money, many of us took part-time jobs of one sort or another.

Now, by this time I was no stranger to assorted odd jobs; I’d already had my share of slingin’ hash at fast food joints, taking tickets at the movie theater, and anything else that would bring in a dollar or two. So I was pretty much open to practically anything. Although I may have drawn the line at wearing a tomato suit. But then again, maybe not.

However, since I was in the Corps, one job opportunity presented itself that was pretty much ideal: working as a waiter in the Corps cafeteria. Now, you might be thinking to yourself, like I did, A waiter! Sheesh, that sounds like a lot of work! Well, I’ll tell ya; it sorta was. But bear with me for a minute for, as Paul Harvey might say, the rest of the story.

All the Corps dorms are grouped together at one end of the campus, and as I mentioned, we had our own cafeteria. But unlike a typical cafeteria, we served food “family style” (that means we’d bring bowls and platters of food out for each table, and everybody served themselves, as if you were at your Mom’s).

Our job (among other things) was to bring all that out on huge serving trays, carrying as many as eight large bowls or plates on each run from the kitchen. Sometimes they got pretty heavy! And, just to make it a challenge, no waiter worth his salt used both hands to carry their tray; the *ahem* proper way was to balance that huge, loaded tray on one hand as we threaded our way through the crowed room to our tables.

Yep, it was hard work; I’m telling ya, there were days I thought I’d never “get everything done”. But believe it or not, I discovered being a waiter could actually be a lot of fun (at least at this place, anyway - I’ve never waited anywhere else, so how would I know?), not to mention some great benefits, too.

Now, before I get to waxin’ a little too eloquent (the word bloviating comes to mind), the question before the court today is, what, if anything, did being a waiter teach me about life, the universe, and everything?

Opportunity Knocks in the Strangest Places

I have to tell ya, I never wanted to be a waiter - no way, no how. It always seemed to be about the worst job imaginable. I mean, serving mediocre food to people who couldn’t care less - well, it just wasn’t my cup of tea. On the other hand, being broke does tend to make one reevaluate their options, if ya know what I mean.

However, once on campus the opportunity sortof popped up out of the blue. The money was good - better than almost any other unskilled job I could have found. The thing that convinced me, though, was the friend who told me about it. His experience (from the year before) gave me what I needed to get past my inherent kicking and screaming reticence.

Besides, it was essentially right next door (within 100 feet - thus, no car needed!) and the time frame was right (mealtimes were already blocked out in my schedule). Only after I took the job, though, did I begin to realize just how good it really was.

Lesson Learned: Opportunity knocks in the strangest places - and you’d better be ready when it does! Forget the list of “things you’ll do” or “things you won’t”; just try to be flexible and open. You might be surprised.

Service is What You Do

Y’know; when you get right down to it, it matters not whether we’re freelance writers, presidents of countries, shoemakers, worm farmers… or even, heaven help you, waiters - we’re all in the service business. That is, we’re all in the business of serving our customers. And lemme tell ya, if you haven’t tried listening to your customers, then Bubba, you ain’t been servin’ ‘em well!

For instance, it was a certainty that every table had folks with certain… well, let’s be diplomatic and call them idiosyncrasies. On this table, the Senior (there was usually only one per table) wanted to see a certain brand of hot sauce at his place (and the hotter, the better - the most asked-for brand, “Green Dragon”, pretty much says it all). Hey, no problémo; I made sure there was enough to peel the paint off the floor (which, come to think of it, it would have).

Over on that table, maybe the Juniors preferred chocolate milk while the Sophomores preferred regular milk. So as I prepared their tables each morning I switched the cartons around as needed. No big deal.

As I said, it was no big deal; but those little things paid off. At the end of each semester, it was traditional for each table to give their waiter a tip (not allowed during the year). Sadly, some waiters got bupkus. But my tips, I’m proud to say, were surprisingly generous - and very much appreciated.

Lesson Learned: By listening to my customers, I had all the information I needed to make their experience better. Those little extras didn’t really add anything to my work load. But, it made a memorable difference to them. Oh, not necessarily 5-star restaurant-worthy, but still. I’m just sayin’.

Don’t Rush Me!

Every morning and every evening we served about 3,000 cadets, and it was always the same routine: 6 am reveille (wake up to a bugle - how fun!), immediately followed by “falling out” for uniform inspections. By 6:30 they herded into the mess hall, scarfed down whatever the meal of the day was, and by 7 am were out the door. Whew, what a mad rush!

As waiters, though, we were sortof above all that, don’cha know. Since we were, you know, really busy while everyone else was eating, we only got to eat after everyone left. As it turned out, there were a couple of really great benefits from that.

First of all, unlike everyone else, we could take our time and eat at a normal pace; no rushing, hustling, OR bustling. And, it was quiet, too. You know the sense of serenity you experience right after a big storm goes through? Well, once the mob left the building, it was like that.

Second, and even better, we not only had our pick of the best food, but there was plenty of it. Now, lest you think we were scraping the leftovers from plates (yuck!), lemme tell ya, this was the cat’s meow!

See, there was always food that hadn’t been taken off their serving platters. Even on Steak Night (every Wednesday: T-bones, no less), there were steaks left over. (It always amazed me that not everyone liked steak, but what the hey, you know?) And, since there was no rush, we could go around the room and pick and choose whatever we wanted.

Extra milk for breakfast? Hey, no problem; chocolate or regular? Mmmm, those cookies were sure good. Go ahead, help yourself! I’m tellin’ ya; we ate like kings!

Lesson Learned: I came to realize that the best part about the whole thing wasn’t that we could eat well. No, it’s that the slower pace made everything better. That’s kinda my philosophy now: get it done - but savor it, too.

Rank Does Have its Privileges

One of the most practical benefits of being a waiter was I got an upgrade in privileges. Now, for those of you who haven’t had the, um, blessing of being indoctrinated into the Military Way of Doing Things, this one might need a bit of explaining.

See, in the Corps of Cadets, life is all about privileges. Every grade-year had their own, in descending order. Seniors (ranked somewhere just below the level of God), could do pretty much anything they wanted. Juniors (perhaps just above mighty men of yore), had fewer - but still not too bad. The next level down, Sophomores (equivalent, more or less, to “normal” people), had even fewer. For those of us at the bottom of the pile, the Freshmen - well, it was our, um, privilege to be pretty much slaves to everybody above. (But it’s OK (deep breath); I’m over it now.)

Anyway, it meant that, although only a Freshman (defined as lower than the lowest layer of whale poo in the deepest part of the ocean), while working in the mess hall I became the equivalent to a Sophomore in privileges. It wasn’t insignificant, either; the general idea was to prevent us from being treated like dirt (which as I said, tends to be the sad lot of Freshmen) and more like a normal human being. It helped keep things running smoothly.

To tell you the truth, I’ve never had a problem with the idea that rank does indeed have its privileges. It always seemed, I don’t know, like a pretty natural development to me. If you think about it, it’s essentially the same in every organization, too, no matter how big, small, flat or stacked they happen to be. Maybe not quite to this degree, but still (after all, pecking order is especially well-developed in the military).

The only time it ever really bothers me (and rarely then) is when I believe the evidence demonstrates the ones “up there” didn’t earn their position. But… that’s a whole other issue.

Lesson Learned: The fact is, those guys at the top have their job, and I have mine. But we need each other to make a company, and together we get it done.

________________________

[By the way, since we’re still in the midst of our What I Learned From… writing project, I looked this post over and realized I’ve touched on at least 5 of our 18 topics: school, friends, food, time and automobiles. So I’m counting it as an entry!

You can do the same for pretty much any post you write between now and Sunday night, May 18^th, when the project ends. Send me the link and I’ll count it!

If, by some strange chance occurrence, you don’t know what I’m talking about, then drop by the kickoff post, check out the details, and then jump right in!]

You know, it would just be absolutely finer than a frogs hair if you would subscribe to my RSS feed!

Things getting a bit backed up for ya? Is there too much “noise” going on in your life? If you could just take a few minutes for yourself… would you?

Back in 1970, my family and I spent the spring and summer in Europe as a side benefit of my Dad’s work assignment to The Hague in the Netherlands. Suffice it to say we spent a lot of time on weekends doing the usual tourist thing. (One nice thing about Europe - everything is conveniently close, compared to driving around the U.S.!)

However, this trip was different - we were on our way to Italy! My dad had taken a couple of weeks off, and we drove from Den Haag down to Rome and back in a marathon do-it-yourself tour of central Europe. Naturally, we tried to hit as many of the typical tourist spots as we could, of course, but every now and then we found a little, out-of-the-way gem that made the extra stop worthwhile.

Therefore, I have no idea where we were at the time (I think it might have been somewhere in Germany), but there was this one place we stopped…

The Quietest Place on Earth

I remember how beautiful the weather was. Blue sky with a few clouds, temperature in the mid-70s (°F), and a light, warm breeze caressing us. We’d stopped pretty much in the middle of nowhere, but I have no idea why - maybe my Dad just wanted to stretch his legs. It felt good to get out of the car for a few minutes.

Stretching out beside us was a huge, grassy field, sloping gently upwards to the top of a low hill nearby. The grass seemed to be a nearly uniform 3 feet high or so, and I recall it being very green (actually, the grass looked nothing like the photo above; it’s just the best one I could find that conveys the sense of it); it almost made me think of, well, green fur. The breeze caused the long slender blades to sway gently, creating a very gentle, low-level shushing sound that sortof tickled the senses in some indefinably pleasant fashion.

Since there were no fences, I strolled away from the road and wandered into the grass. (Isn’t it funny how, as a kid, we’ll pretty much go anywhere without giving it a second thought? All we’re interested in is adventure. However, as an *ahem* responsible adult, I’d probably lose a lot of time wondering what I couldn’t see: bugs? snakes? alligators? mole people?)

Heedless of any potential catastrophe, I started up the hill to, like the chicken who crossed the road, “see what there was to see”. At the top, though, was simply more grass, stretching into the distance. I could see the ground rolled gently, like a loose blanket on a bed, creating little depressions, folds, and other green-clad but otherwise mundane features.

In fact, directly in front of me was a small depression, forming a shallow bowl about, oh, maybe 50 feet in diameter and about 10 or so feet deep. Totally unconcerned for my personal well-being (no thought of, for instance, giant ants, bottomless pits or quicksand), I wandered down to the low spot, and almost immediately noticed it:

Silence… complete and utter silence.

I’m tellin’ ya, it was downright spooky. Because of the raised edge of the hill (it was sorta like being in the middle of a giant, soft green donut), the breeze didn’t even stir the grass at the bottom. Everything was completely and totally silent - no blades stirring; nothin’.

It’s amazing how much background noise there is - when you can no longer hear it! On top of the hill, there was the breeze, the grass rustling, an occasional passing auto, and other assorted noises. But here, there were none whatsoever. You could practically hear your hair grow. (Come to think of it, it was like - the cone of silence!)

I walked back to the top of the hill and called the rest of my family to join me, and together we descended back into the hollow. It was really weird; although we spoke in completely normal conversational tones, we could hear each other clearly, no matter where we were in the space.

So what did we do? Why had lunch, of course! My sister and I immediately headed for the car and fetched the picnic basket, and together we ate lunch in the Quietest Place on Earth. After an hour or so of eating, relaxing, and generally just enjoying ourselves, we got back in the car and resumed our trek; surprisingly refreshed beyond measure.

Talk about a restful, peaceful place - I’ve never found any place like it since. Quite the experience, I’ll tell ya! Over the years, I’ve come to value those times when I can, well, isolate myself from the world, even for a short time.

A Prescription for Personal Peace

You know, isn’t it amazing how much “background noise” fills our lives? We all get so busy, sometimes just finding the time to relax becomes a major effort. Even then, there’s still that “background noise”, coming from all over.

Well, maybe… maybe you should do what we did: Find a way to get completely isolated for a time (and I do mean isolated - no cell phone, no Blackberry, no email… well, you know the drill). It doesn’t have to be long - anything from a few minutes to a few hours will do. More, if you can spare it. You might be surprised how refreshing it can really be!

How long has it been since you totally relaxed? No, I mean really relaxed? Well, neighbor; that’s just too long!

_______________________

Funny thing; I don’t recall being all that tired BEFORE we stopped to have lunch. But once we got to that spot, everything else seemed to just melt away for awhile. We ate, relaxed, lay around in the grass for a few minutes… basically just isolated ourselves from the world. It was truly the most refreshing time we had on the whole trip.

But by the time we pulled the car away and headed on down the road, I’m tellin’ ya, we were ready for anything! Even had Godzilla chosen that particular moment to invade the Earth in a flying saucer, to raze the countryside with his giant feet and radioactive breath!

So here’s my question for ya: When was the last time you completely… and utterly… relaxed?

You know, it would just be absolutely finer than a frogs hair if you would subscribe to my RSS feed!

So, I was at the George Bush Intercontinental Airport earlier this week, preparing to board that big silver bird once again. (It’s company business; a week-long convention out West.)

When it comes to airports, I tend to be something of an early bird. (I would hate to miss a flight because I didn’t allow enough time to get through security.) It was a good thing, too - the lines were rather long this time. Once inside, though, I headed for one of the many food courts to get something to drink.

While standing in line at Wendy’s, I noticed this young woman a couple of places ahead of me. She wore jeans, tan leather sandals, and a maroon T-shirt. No big deal, of course, but her T-shirt gave me a bit of a pause: it read, “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem.”

Actually, I suppose one could take that in multiple ways. Was she, for instance, expressing a desire to chuck the shirt and shoes and parade through life (or at least the airport) topless and barefoot? Was she perhaps unaware of the inherent contradiction between the message and reality? (Think about it.) Or was it something even more ridiculous - she gave it no thought at all?

Now, I don’t know about you, but it astonishes me sometimes what some folks are willing to hang on their bodies!

Not long ago, while standing in line to renew my driver’s license, a young man ahead of me had on a T-shirt that proudly proclaimed, “Angry young pregnant woman” on it. And to think he was about to immortalize that on his license for at least two years! Hey, I’m sure you’ve seen worse.

But it’s like that guy I read about once, who applied for some job (whatever it was). After he filled out and turned in his application, naturally the company Googled him. (Er; you did realize that happens, didn’t you?) Guess what? They found his blog, where he cheerfully proclaimed to the world that he loved, among other things, “death”! They, um, weren’t amused.

Anyway, it’s just a thought, since I’m a bit out of pocket this week. But don’t panic! Like my buddy Ahnold used to say - “I’ll be back!”

You know, it would just be absolutely finer than a frogs hair if you would subscribe to my RSS feed!

The other day, as I was sitting in a plane and waiting to back away from the terminal, my eyes began to wander around the nearby tarmac. I noticed a couple of the ground crew walking around, doing whatever the heck ground crews do as a plane prepares to move: wave their arms a lot, walk around authoritatively, maybe even drive some weird-looking piece of equipment around. (”Hey, lookit me; I get to drive this portable conveyor belt around and you don’t!”)

But one of the guys stepped right on it - and that’s when I noticed what appeared to be small metal manhole covers embedded flush with the concrete surface; three of ‘em in a row (something like the one pictured here). Nothing special about ‘em; I suppose they were just some of the gizmos associated with the care and feeding of your average jet airliner.

Anyway, as I was idly staring at them, I finally noticed there was something embossed in their metal rims. I looked closer, and finally made out the words. “Culligan & McMillan” was stamped around the rim’s arc on one side, and “Garden Grove, CA, USA” was on the opposite side. Hmph.

And then - it suddenly struck me (sound of dull thud); here was something really interesting! See if you can follow me on this one.

Y’know, I bet those airport guys have walked across these metal covers about a bazillion times since this airport was built. I bet other folks on other planes just like this one have seen ‘em too. I wonder, though: how many have ever given any thought as to who made these things?

Let’s go a bit further, even. I bet back when the airport was first built, very few, if any, contractors paid much attention to the name on these things either. In fact, were I a betting man (and I’m not!), I’d be willing to bet that, except for the person or persons who bought them in the first place, absolutely nobody has given the maker a second thought since.

So, what does it all mean, you ask?

Well, lemme ask ya this: Why would the manufacturer bother to put their name on something probably very few people will ever see? I mean, it’s not quite the same thing as putting up a billboard on a freeway somewhere and having a million eyes a month pass it by. Chances are, very few eyes have ever even noticed them, much less made the effort to read the inscriptions.

And another thing - it costs money to make the molds that put those letters on the metal rims, too. Why bother, if no one will ever read them?

While you’re working on your answer, I’ll give you mine: They didn’t care who knew about it - they were still proud of what they did!

It makes for an interesting parable, don’t you think?

You know, it would just be absolutely finer than a frogs hair if you would subscribe to my RSS feed!

[A Note To Readers of Middle Zone Musings: If you’ve been dropping by for any length of time now, some of you may be thinking to yourself, “Gee, does anything normal ever happen to this guy?” Hey, it’s OK; sooner or later that thought occurs to everybody we know. Well, I’m almost positive something normal happened just last week. But hey, who wants to go there? The abby-normal* stuff is a lot more fun to talk about!]

Anyway, yesterday’s post reminded me of yet another, er, odd thing that happened while we were in Charlotte that I just had to share.

When we picked up the rental car at the airport, everything seemed to go well. We had a fairly decent choice: a Porsche 911 Targa, a Tesla Electric Roadster, a Lamborghini Murcielago - oh, and a pokey ol’ Ferrari 430 Scuderia (sound of alarm clock going off - huh? Oh, sorry - must have been dreaming there for a minute.)

Um, yeah -

Well, we had our choice of compact cars, so we picked… something tiny (can’t remember what it was exactly), got our paperwork, and headed to the car lot. Upon opening the trunk, though, we were surprised to find, not a clean, spic-and-span place to put our bags, but a pile of smelly trash! Yuk!

I called the service manager over and he was properly apologetic and all, and immediately endeared himself to me by offering a different, upgraded vehicle - a “mid size”. (It’s hard not to laugh at vehicle descriptions these days. What used to be called “mid sized” is now pretty much a “subcompact” today. *sigh*) So anyway, good for him; obviously keeping the customer happy was important to him (since all I had to do otherwise was move to the next counter).

So now we had this… slightly bigger car, our luggage was safely ensconced in the trunk (or “boot”, as you charming folk across the pond refer to it), and we headed off to our hotel. Or at least that was the plan.

Before we had even made the first 100 yards, the steering wheel started to shimmy, keeping remarkably good time with the entire front end of the car! I stopped and examined the wheels, and sure enough, the right front wheel was canted at a, well, rather creative angle. I assumed someone had forgotten to put the lug nuts on when changing the tire; that’s what it felt like.

Luckily, we hadn’t gotten too far, so I hiked back to the very same service manager and told him the news. I wish you could have seen his face - definitely a Kodak moment. But he recovered nicely and immediately had someone bring us something “full sized”. (I don’t know; that almost sounds like a euphemism for something, doesn’t it?) But what the hey - all we wanted was a working set of wheels here!

Back on our way again (we managed to make it out of the parking lot this time), we headed for the hotel, about three miles away. And we almost made it too.

Yep; you guessed it - about ¼ mile from the hotel, the engine started wheezing and coughing, and suddenly just - died! Drat! But we managed to coast into the parking lot on the last of the car’s available kinetic energy. Whew!

After checking in, I called the rental place again, asking for that same service manager. “You’re not going to believe this,” I began in my best ironic tone, but he managed to finish it for me: “Don’t tell me; your car broke down, didn’t it?”

Once again, he outdid himself. “Don’t worry,” he told me. “If you’ll just hold on, in about a half an hour I’ll have the best car we have on the lot at your hotel. Oh, and thanks for sticking with us!”

True to his word, exactly 32.7 minutes later an agent from the rental desk pulled up in a huge white Cadillac (this was back when a Cadillac was a genuine ‘land yacht’)! She got out, cheerily handed me the keys, and said, “Sorry ‘bout the trouble, folks, have a great stay in Charlotte!” Another car pulled up beside her, she got in, and they drove off, waving.

Now, I wish I could tell you the name of the rental car company, because I’d love to recommend them to you should you ever need to rent a car in Charlotte, North Carolina. Alas, it’s been well over mumblemumble years now, and I’m afraid that particular information belongs to brain cells that have apparently already taken early retirement.

Nevertheless, there’s no reason we can’t learn a few lessons from it anyway, right? (Chorus of “rights” from the audience.) So here goes:

• Attitude (Part 1) - One of the things that impressed us the most was the service manager’s attitude about the whole thing. Not once did he attempt to dodge any responsibility, or brush it off as a minor issue - not even the trash in the trunk. It was a big deal to him, and he demonstrated it in no uncertain terms! It was obvious he appreciated our business, and was going to keep it if it was the last thing he did. To you sir, wherever you are, I applaud and thank you! I truly wish I could do more.

• Attitude (Part 2) - ‘Course, I didn’t go screaming at the guy, either, or get angry about the inconvenience, or otherwise engage in a tantrum. Stop and think about it - such a course of action always results in more trouble, not less, and rarely provides a solution that will satisfy anyone. It immediately puts the other party on the defensive (and they’re already there anyway), it shuts down most communication except the very worst kind, and raises the blood pressure of anyone within hearing. Definitely not good. It just so happens I’m a rather calm fellow anyway, but for those of you who aren’t - well, my advice is, BEFORE you react, take a deep breath, count to ten, or do whatever it takes to get past the moment. THEN do what you need to do.

• Perspective - Y’know, when everything is said and done, there is usually more said than done, there really weren’t any seriously catastrophic consequences here. I mean, we weren’t time-constrained, we arrived at the hotel just fine, and still ended up with a dependable (although admittedly very nice car). But even so, if you step back far enough and look at the situation “from the outside”, so to speak - well, it just really wasn’t anything to get upset about. I think you’ll find that, given the right perspective, probably lots of things we get all worked up about really turn out to be no big deal in the long run. At least, that’s been my experience.

Y’know; when stuff like this happens, there are really only two ways you can handle it: fight it, or roll with it. I don’t know about you, but speaking from experience here, rolling with it is so much better. Save your energy for the things that really matter. Like so much else in life, it all boils down to choice.

OK; now it’s your turn. And whatever you choose - try not to be too abby-normal!

* ‘abby-normal’ is a reference from the movie Young Frankenstein, starring Gene Wilder, Marty Feldman, and a whole cast of well-known stars. If you’re in need a good belly laugh or three, then stop what you’re doing right now and run, don’t walk, to your nearest movie source and rent the thing.

You know, it would just be absolutely finer than a frogs hair if you would subscribe to my RSS feed!

[Many embarrassed thanks to ol’ eagle-eye reader Larry Hendrick for spotting an error in my geography. After reading and re-reading this article multiple times, I still managed to get my directions backwards! Originally I wrote “San Antonio to Houston” instead of as it now reads. Maybe I need to go back and reread this post. Thanks, Larry! - Proprietor]

I’m looking out my window this morning at a dense fog rolling into the area. I don’t know about you, but most of the time I love the fog - the sense of mystery, the muffled silence, the damp; I just find it interesting.

Unfortunately, fog doesn’t always make me feel that way. Sometimes it’s just, well, yuck.

Alternate Realities

Some time ago, I drove from Houston to San Antonio [see note above] on one of America’s longest freeways, Interstate-10. It was early, about 7:30 or so, but already my stomach was knotted up like pantyhose in a dryer. I knew the sun was above the horizon somewhere, but that was only because of the barely-discernible brightening of the heavy grey fog surrounding me. In all my travels (and that’s a LOT!) I’d never seen fog this thick before. My speed reduced to about 20 miles per hour, and even at that felt I was still taking a chance! I could barely see 50 feet in front of the car, and had no landmarks, signs or any indication of where exactly I was.

Not to mention the danger inherent in being forced to drive very slowly on what is normally a fast road, right? I mean, there could always be some clown out there with no sense whatsoever; you never knew if some bonehead might materialize out of the fog behind me and spread me all over the landscape!

My hands gripped the steering wheel as I slowly felt my way through the dense blanket of mist, trying my best to be pretty much prepared for anything. Sometimes it seemed as if I was the only person left in this entire part of Texas, and I found myself wishing for some sign of life out there, just to let me know I wasn’t alone. I’m tellin’ ya, it was about the spookiest driving experience of my life!

OK; now let’s go to a different day…

Some time ago, I drove from Houston to San Antonio [again, see note above], once again on Interstate-10. It was still fairly early, about 7:30 am. The morning sun had just peeked above the rolling Texas hills behind me, illuminating my way with its hazy golden light. My car’s shadow stretched before me like an anxious puppy on a leash, pulling me onward.

Fields, pastures, and assorted farm outbuildings passed as I tooled merrily along the gently rolling blacktop. There was hardly a car in sight, either; it seemed as if I had this entire part of Texas to myself that morning. The sky was blue, the pavement dry, and I had my favorite CD in the player. I’m tellin’ ya, it was a most pleasant driving experience, and all was right with the world!

Get the picture? Same road, same time of day, same trip - yet two totally different experiences. What made the difference? Yes, you in the back, with the suspenders - oh, the fog, you say? Would you be upset if I told you that you were, um, less right than you could have been? (I’m practicing my political correctness. I’m avoiding using the word “wrong”.)

Oh, sure, there was dense fog on one day and not the other. But to my mind (which admittedly is sometimes a very strange place), that’s not the real difference. Nope; it’s what the fog caused that makes this an important - no, a critical lesson, and I can sum it up in one single word:

Uncertainty (bright flash of lightning; deafening crash of thunder; sound of terrified scream).

The Curse of Uncertainty

Don’t you just hate uncertainty? (Again - bright flash, crashing thunder, screaming) Personally, I think it’s because we so like to be in control of everything. When it raises its ugly head I’m afraid it kinda makes us a little, you know, insane.

Back in January I wrote about a time when, as a project in Austin, Texas was coming to a close, I never could get a straight answer on where the company wanted me to go next. (Hmm… sounds kinda weird, doesn’t it - waiting for someone to tell you where to go? I’m just sayin.) Anyway, this went on for literally weeks, and it nearly drove Mrs. MZM and me crazy.

But what was the problem, really? Well, it wasn’t the situation itself (as whacky as that was), but the uncertainty (once again, with feeling) that was the intolerable part, you know?

To tell you the truth, I don’t really need to create another list of suggested strategies for managing uncert- (well, you know); the ones I put in that other post will do just fine. The only point I wanted to make today is this: You may be handling it better than you think.

“Huh? Now how would you know that?” you ask. Well, I don’t really know, of course. But here’s something we discovered during our trials and tribulations.

The Blessing of Uncertainty

You know what was really ironic? Our friends at church, who knew all about our situation, kept telling us things like, “I don’t see how you can stay calm at a time like this. It would drive me crazy! I could never handle it!”

Here we were, thinking we were coming apart at the seams, but everyone else thought we were really being troopers about the whole thing! Now that was weird. But it did help us see something we’d overlooked before.

I think this is one of those class of lessons learned that, like patience, you never know you have - until you can look back and realize you had it all along! Kindof a paradox, it’s true, but there it is. It’s when you can look back and say with amazement, “Hey, we made it after all!”

And that’s when we can look back and laugh.

(photo credits: eve, by lumase; uncertainty, by Meredith Farmer; Crazy Lady, by Orange County Girl)

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Albert Einstein (Walther Matthau) is lying in a hospital bed. He is looking at a small object, held in his open palm - a compass in a wooden box . Edward (Tim Robbins) and Katherine (Meg Ryan) are standing at his bedside.

“My compass… (Albert muses out loud)

“My memory is… of my father, when I was five years old. I think I was sick in bed then, too. He gave me this compass. When I first held it in my hand, I was wonderstruck by what force, invisible and unfelt, could be holding the needle.

“Here, Edward, you take this (placing it in Edward’s hand and closing his fingers over it), so that you never lose your way, and you always keep your sense of wonder.”

- Scene from I.Q. (1994)

An Essential Instrument

Quite a few years ago, I decided it would be fun to learn to fly. No, silly, not by flapping my arms (although as a kid that method worked well - at least, in my imagination). No, I wanted to get a private pilot’s license. (Question: what, exactly, is a public pilot’s license?)

To be honest, I had no idea what would be involved in such an undertaking. I mean, once you get in the air, you push that control yoke thingie forward or backward and the plane goes up or down, right? Move it left - turn left; move it right - turn right. (How’m I doin’ so far?) Hey, what could be so hard about that?

(I must admit, though - I did have this somewhat macho image in my head, as I enthusiastically pictured myself wearing that cool leather bomber’s jacket and dark aviator sunglasses.)

Anyway, after deciding to hold off ordering the jacket just yet (I already had the sunglasses!), I started taking flying lessons from a flight school located at Houston’s Hobby Airport. Now, if you happen to be a private pilot you may already know this little factoid, but I found out later that this particular airport was, at the time, one of the busiest airports in the Southwest.

Of course, had I known it at the time, I probably would have chosen to learn at a much slower-paced location. But… c’est la vie, y’know? (Note: c’est la vie is a French term that roughly translates to I hope your life insurance is paid up, Bubba!)

Anyhoo -

As I became familiar with all the pretty little lights, dials and other instruments on the dash, on the ceiling, and practically everywhere else, one of the most important ones (at least to me), seemed like it would be the magnetic compass. I mean, if everything else failed on the plane, at least you would always know which direction you were heading, right?

Strangely enough, though, on the small plane I used for lessons, I had to keep verifying the calibration of my magnetic compass to make sure it was still accurate, because it would “drift” over time (somebody help me out here - is this true of all small planes?).

That always seemed somewhat odd to me. I mean, why wouldn’t the darned thing keep pointing toward magnetic north like compasses are supposed to? What’s with that, anyway? Nevertheless, it was part of the normal pre-flight, pre-takoff, and mid-flight routines. I just had to make sure the compass was correctly calibrated every now and then .

So where am I going with this? Well, I was wondering that too hey, I’m glad you asked!

Is That All It Does?

Now, metaphorically speaking (you do realize we’re talking in metaphors here, right?), a compass is pretty much fundamental to life. See, a compass serves one specific function, and that’s pretty much it: It tells you which direction you’re heading. Pretty simple, right?

So what’s so important about that, anyway? I mean, with all the choices in life out there, what’s wrong with going in more than one direction - to try several things at once, even. Isn’t choice a good thing? Well, of course it is!

But there’s a catch. Once a course is chosen, that’s when the compass comes in handy; when it can really do its thing. Allow me to illustrate with a few specific scenes…

Scene 1

A teen-ager leaves home for the very first time to attend a nearby college, taking the first steps to Higher Learning, eventually choosing a career path, and (hopefully productive!) adulthood. It’s exciting, but at the same time it’s scary beyond belief. While at school, he is exposed to literally every subject under the sun, from philosophy to the sciences. On top of that, people all around him are doing things he never imagined doing, and he wonders… what’s really OK, and what’s not. Nobody is willing to say. He begins stretching beyond the boundaries of his childhood, and before long, nothing seems out of bounds to him.

Question: What is this young person’s compass?

Scene 2

A happily married man goes alone on a business trip to Las Vegas, where “what happens there, stays there” (at least, that’s the laughable claim, anyway; in truth, what happens stays with us, always). As he walks the sidewalks of the Strip, scores of hawkers line up on either side, offering enticing glimpses of every vice under the sun. He completely ignores them. Sitting in his room that night, he glances at the wedding band on his finger while reminiscing about such things as his wedding day, the feel of his wife in his arms, and the simple pleasure of waking up next to her.

Question: What is this man’s compass?

Scene 3

A despondent young man comes face to face with the belief that his life had no meaning whatsoever. He spends days… weeks… even months struggling with the recurring thought: what’s the point? Finally, his roommate sits him down one day and shows him how to find the solution to life by giving his heart to Jesus Christ as his Savior - and he does. Over the years, his life has its ups and downs, successes and failures. But every time life get rough, or cloaked in uncertainty, he knows he can always count on his Faith to see him through - and it always does.

Question: What is this man’s compass?

How to Know You’re on Track

The thing is, I don’t consider having an internal compass as quite the same thing as, well, making plans, getting guidance from an advisor or mentor, or even pursuing a job you’ve always wanted. Those are what you might call active, er, activities - stuff for which we pretty much have control and responsibility.

No, a compass is much different in that it is an entirely passive instrument. What makes it work is a force, invisible and unfelt, that pulls the needle in one direction, and one direction only.

It won’t choose your course for you (although it can help). It won’t keep you from making bad choices in life (although it can inform you when you do). In fact, it doesn’t seem to do much of anything at all except sit there and… point.

But as life unfolds before us, isn’t that pretty much the thing we need the most? Something to let us know when the path we’re on is taking us away from our compass heading? I know it holds true for me. And there’s no greater comfort when, for instance, I’m recovering from the consequences of a bad choice, to know that I’m back on the right course.

So what’s your compass? Do you have one, and when did you figure out what it was? Has it been with you a long time, or has it been more recent? Would you care to add, subtract, dispute or reinforce anything I’ve said here?

[Oh, by the way, for yet another one of my flying adventures (um, let’s just give it the benefit of the doubt and call it that, shall we?) , you might enjoy this story too: Fear of Flying]

(final photo credit: Map and Compass, by Inky Bob - er, no relation)

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