Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts

Monday, August 9, 2010

God's Blessing

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I haven’t written a post specifically on faith since May 11. However, it is important to me to write only when I think I have something useful to say. My short series on alcoholism certainly was driven by my faith and I shared with you its central role in my recovery.
I have spent a great deal time during this period praying, reading, and thinking about what I could write on faith issues that might be helpful and relevant to you in your daily lives. I hope that this essay will strengthen you on your own spiritual journey.
Blessings and peace to you all.
Monte

The Bible speaks many times about the blessing of God and the blessings that God bestows on us. It speaks of God blessing particular individuals, even groups and entire nations. Israel, for example, is blessed, not just for itself, but so it could be a blessing to all nations.

But it also is clear that God bestows blessings on everyone, not just on the religious, and not even only upon on the good, but also upon the evil. Sunshine and rain, two essential ingredients of life, Mathew tells us, fall upon both the good and the evil.

The Bible also speaks about the blessings we should bestow on others. And, of course, it often tells us that we should bless God, both in gratitude for the blessings God gives to us, but also simply because God is God, and worthy of praise, blessing and worship.

But I want to move beyond these theological generalities, because, while they set general parameters for understanding blessing, I would like to bring the discussion down to a much more personal level, one with which we all, hopefully, can identify.

I believe that most people today would say that most of the thanks for the blessings they receive goes to themselves. If we are blessed, mostly we figure we have earned it. We believe that we deserve to be blessed.
A few of us will acknowledge those who came before us and laid the groundwork for our successes, whatever they are. But, still, we believe that we are the ones who built upon that foundation and made it into something. They gave us a leg up, but we did the real work. So, still, we think that we deserve the blessings we get.

The interesting thing about these notions is that they are, of course, partly correct. But only partly. There is something missing in that kind of thinking, something that we have not necessarily consciously forgotten, but that was forgotten long before we came along. Unless we are taught what that is, we will inevitably place our trust in the one we think is the source of our blessings: our own self.

And in doing so we still miss something we have lost, perhaps never really known that we had. That is because we, as a species, lost that something long before there was a church, or a temple, synagogue, or mosque. It was lost before there was anything like a formal “religion.”

And that is an awareness of God as the source of all blessing.

Long ago we lost the understanding that we wholly belong to God, that we are so dependent upon God that our very existence is in God’s hands. We forgot that our lives are nothing more than pure gifts, gifts of God’s steadfast love.

We have forgotten who we are and to whom we belong.

Now, if you are a believer and even, perhaps, a regularly worshiping believer, you may think that what I am saying does not apply to you. And if it really does not I am very happy for you. Unfortunately, I cannot say that it does not apply to me.

The truth is that day in, day out, I hear myself complain, or I get anxious, about things that are not going my way, or I try to control my life and the lives of those around me, seldom doing a very good job of that. And in the process I inevitably forget whose I am and how I am daily blessed by God. And I, of all people, should not do that. Allegedly, I know better. Alas, what I know does not always translate into how I live my faith.

For me, there is a simple word for such forgetfulness: sin. And, unfortunately for many of us, when we feel a bit too self-righteous, the Bible is there to remind us that we are all sinners. Not some, ALL.

The Bible stories in Genesis that tell us about the time just before Noah and about Noah illustrate the importance of God’s blessing. I will paraphrase the essence of these stories as I go along. [I won’t bore you with lots of scripture quotes, but, if you wish, you can read Chapters 6 through 9 of Genesis for the details. They are short and won’t take long.]
After the great flood, the story says that God tells Noah that God will establish a covenant with him, his descendants, and with every living creature. I doubt that Noah had much trouble understanding the importance of that covenant given that God had just wiped out every living thing on the earth, except for the animals and Noah’s family that were saved on the ark that God had told Noah to build.

God had wiped out all the rest of the land borne creation because the people had already forgotten the source of their blessings. By chapter 6 of Genesis they already had forgotten. To give you an idea how early that is in the Bible, look at it this way. A typical Bible is 1000 plus pages. Chapter 6 of Genesis will be found within the first 5-7 pages of that Bible, right after the stories of the expulsion from the Garden and of Cain and Able. Soon. Really soon.

According to the story, the people were already so evil that God was, literally, “sick to his guts” with their sin. And the Bible tells us that this “grieved him to his heart,” and concludes with a quote from the maker of heaven and earth saying, “I will blot out from the earth the human beings I have created; people, together with animals and creeping things and birds of the air, for I am sorry that I have made them.” But……

But, after the flood, God decided to make a covenant with Noah which would guarantee the salvation of not only humankind but of all of the creatures of the earth. God did this because God saw in Noah a righteous man. And Noah found favor in God’s sight.

In this tiny remnant family God saw enough goodness, enough understanding of to whom we creatures belong, to decide to keep our story going. So, as the story goes, without God remembering Noah, I would not be writing this and you would not be reading it.

And here is an amazing thing. Something that we inevitably overlook in this story. The story of the Noahic covenant starts with Verse One of Chapter Nine. And it starts out with a phrase we always skip over, perhaps because it seems so natural, so simple, so expected that we don’t even notice it. It starts, “Then God blessed Noah….”
Ah. That simple phrase. It just isn’t very dramatic, is it? I mean, we remember the big things that God does in the Bible, don’t we? We remember all the mighty acts of God in history. Those are the ones they teach in Bible School. Almost every child of a practicing religious family can tell you about Noah and the Ark.

Yet the blessing is by far God’s greatest act in that story, for without God’s blessing Noah would have failed even after the flood. It was the blessing that allowed the world to go on to become the world we know today.

Go back and look at the story of the creation in Chapter One. What does God do for humankind after God makes us on the sixth day? God blesses us. We are nothing without that blessing.

When people forget the blessing of their creator no good results. That is the moral of the story and of almost every other significant story in the Bible. Forget the blessing. Forget God. And God will not take that lightly. Fortunately, Noah did not forget that he was blessed by God.

It is easy for us to lose sight of the simple rhythms of God’s blessings in our lives. But we must not forget that there is a continuous, constant, steadfast presence of God in our lives, and it comes from those countless blessings. It is God’s blessing that brings to us fertility, family, nourishment, growth, nurture, love, and well-being. And these are the things that sustain our lives and that give quality to living. These are the “Simple Gifts” of life itself.
Noah knew that. Noah knew that he could endure the hardships of life, could endure the endless days on the ark as he rode out the flood, could endure the pain and loss of so many friends and relatives who chose not to believe, who chose to forget the blessing, who would not listen to God. He could endure because he knew that he belonged to God. He knew who he was, where he fit in the scheme of things, and, most of all to whom he belonged.

And, he knew that even before the flood. Before anyone, even God, spoke the words of blessing over him Noah knew who he was and to whom he belonged. He knew. And because he knew God considered him righteous.

Can we know as much? Or must we see amazing signs and mighty wonders to believe? Do we need to see some miraculous and overwhelming act of God before we remember to whom we owe our lives? It is not likely that in this lifetime we will see one of those mighty acts of God.
But if we just look around we can see God’s blessings everyday. The beauty those blessings bring is all around us. The world itself is a beautiful, wondrous, improbable place. It is a blessing that you can laugh, or work, or play, or think, or feel pain, or cry, or love and be loved. God provides life to us every day. Why do we take that for granted?

If we remember nothing else can we remember just this one thing? Can we remember that we are not necessary?!  Surely that thought has crossed your mind at one time or another. Our lives do not have to be. There is no necessity that we exist. One egg. One sperm. One particular egg. One particular sperm. That makes you. Any other sperm, any other egg, and you don’t exist.

Do you realize that in countless ways every day of your life you are exposed, vulnerable, to things that could eliminate your life in a single heartbeat? But here we are. And that is a blessing.

The life we have been given; the air we breathe; the people we know and love, and who love us, all these and countless more things we take for granted, all are blessings. They are gifts. Gifts from the one who created us and sustains us and loves us. Not “us Christians.” Not “us Jews.” Not “us Muslims.” Not “us atheists.” ALL of us.  All of us are blessed: by the God who gives us life.

For me it comes down to some choices. First, I choose to believe that this world and my life as part of it are not simply random acts of indifferent chance. Others do not share that belief. They are entitled to their beliefs, or lack thereof. Each must decide for him or her self what they believe about that fundamental choice.
Second, I have to constantly ask myself two questions lest I fall into the fallacy of self sufficiency: “Am I my own man, or am I God’s? And, if I am God’s, do I owe my life to my hard work or to God’s blessing?”

Too often we think that we are too busy to think about questions like these. Yet at times of stress, of grief, of illness, or great loss, times when there is no time to think, we often think that we are not blessed. Those are times when our self reliance and our self confidence in our ability to control our lives fail us. Those are the times when we feel most lost, most alone.

We feel alone because we have put our faith in ourselves, and when we fail ourselves we all too often blame that on God. It is very hard, indeed, to look in a mirror at times like those. But we must. We must be honest about who really failed. And we must, at our lowest times, remember God’s blessings.

We must, because it is when the god we have made out of ourselves, or our success, or our science, or our technology has let us down, and we finally realize that we cannot bless ourselves in ways that really count – that is when we must remember what it means to be blessed by God.

But we do not have to wait for some personal tragedy to start thinking about God’s blessing. We can take a chapter out of Noah’s book. Noah knew he was blessed long before the crisis came. He had thought about it and pondered it in the quiet recesses of his heart. He knew.

We too can know in our hearts that we are blessed; that we belong to God and that God takes care of God’s own. We can know that we are blessed because God has given us our very lives. We can know that we are blessed because God loves us. All of us.

It may sound trite, but it does make sense to count our blessings. Add them up. Get a sense of how totally pervasive they are in our lives. Get a sense of how totally indebted to God we are for our well being.

And then go out and pass on some of those blessings that you have been given to someone else. There is much to be thankful for, and one way to show your gratitude is by paying it forward to someone who needs to feel a blessing at a difficult point in his or her life. You are blessed, and, you can be a blessing to someone. It is a wonderful feeling.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Motorcycles: A Magnificent Obsession, Part Seven

First published DECEMBER 9, 2008 10:57PM

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Kansas: The Flint Hills in Spring
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Washington State: the Palouse in Spring
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What life looks like in Kansas when you grow up poor.
It looks just the same if you grow up poor in the Palouse.



Related Posts - Motorcycles: A Magnificent Obsession: there are 10 parts to this memoir. You can find them listed in the archive sidebar on the right.


I subtitle this section of this memoir: “Where the Hell are The Directions?”

Part 6 ended with two very drunk, and one very tired (me!) motorcyclists finding that the two bikes they had bought from the Montgomery Ward catalog were completely unassembled. At that point I was feeling that I had taken advantage of Earl by talking him into this fiasco. But then something dawned on me that made me feel stupid, and angry. Here is the end of part 6.

Just a little note: After pushing the wheel barrow up the drive with the pieces of his new bike, it dawned on me that we could have just put the pieces of the bike into the back of Earl's pickup and driven it to the garage!

At that point I was the one who was drunk and pissed off. I had been too stupid, or drunk, to think of that when he first rolled the wheel barrow down the driveway. He never, to his dying day, admitted that he did that on purpose. Like hell he didn't!

Any way, we put the pieces of crates in the back of Earl’s truck and called it a day.

I wobbled into Earl’s living room and fell down on the divan. As Earl walked by from the kitchen to his bedroom, Wild Turkey still in hand, I yelled out, “G’night, Scarlett. We’ll think about this tomorrow.”

Part Six

It was late, after midnight, when we got all the parts of the two bikes into the garage, kept them in two separate areas, and had gone to bed. Earl, always the early riser, was up and cooking breakfast by 7 the next morning. Such disgusting activities are anathma to a night owl like me. I had crashed on the living room couch in the clothes I was wearing the night before.

The noise and smell, ugh!, woke me and once Earl saw me stirring he always made sure that there was no way in hell he was going to let me sleep. So he puts on a vinyl album of Johnny Rivers and turns it up. Unfortunately, Earl had a great stereo system with 15” Infinity base boxes. So my hungover brain is treated to a nice 120 decibel concert of "Maybellene," "Baby I Need Your Loving," "The Tracks of My Tears," "Tunesmith," and "Help Me, Rhonda." By the time we got to "I Washed My Hands in Muddy Water" I was up and staggered to the bathroom to die. The problem is that at that age you don’t die, you just feel like hell. I kept some minimum toiletries at Earl’s for just such occasions and I brushed the fuzz on my tongue and walked back into the dining room.

Earl was sitting there bright and chipper eating a huge breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, AND, a huge Bloody Mary. His drink looked pretty pale to me, but that happens when you make a Bloody Mary out of 4 ounces of vodka, a splash of tomato juice, an dash of worchestershire sauce.

I fixed a Bloody Mary that had 8 ounces of tomato juice, a splash of vodka and a lot of worchestershire. I didn’t mind a bit of the hair of the dog at 7 am, but I didn’t want to start the day eating the whole dog. Since I never eat breakfast and was sure to get heartburn as soon as this went down I checked my pockets to see if I had any Tums. Yep. (I carried Tums the way some people carry a billfold or Sen Sen.

So we worked out a PLAN. We prided ourselves on always having a plan. We would unwrap each piece, guess where it went on the bikes and lay them out in the rough outline of a bike on the garage floor. Actually, this stroke of genius came to me from watching, a few days before, the way investigators piece together a crashed airplane. Only in this case we would be putting the bikes together.

What we both thought was that in one of the packages would be a nice, fat, Assembly Manual. Who, after all would ship a complete motorcycle in parts without including instructions to put it together. Plus we would need the Owner’s Manual, and the set of tools that, back then, that came with every bike. The tools were irrelevant, but the Owner’s Manual was important for telling us how much oil to put in the bike, how loose to set the chain, amount of air in the tires, how to adjust the shocks and chain tension, and such stuff, plus the manufacturer’s recommended break in procedure.

So we eventually got started after Earl had another anemic looking, but oh so potent, Bloody Mary. He was happy as a pig eating……well, you know. He always was after a breakfast that would make a lumberman barf and a couple of stiff breakfast drinks.

As soon as we started unwrapping the parts we found out that any part that could possibly rust – and some that would not– were coated in a thick, dark brown layer of cosmoline. I swear it looked like some were dipped in that crap, not just sprayed on. If you have ever tried to clean up anything coated with cosmoline you will know that, while it is the best product to keep a metal part from rusting, or aluminum from corroding, it is absolute the compound from hell to get off the part. If you doubt me, just Google cosmoline and the first 400,000 entries are about removing this evil gunk.

Cosmoline gets on your hands, on your clothes, on anything it touches. So now we have, laid out on the floor, two Italian bikes, totally in parts and covered with brown, waterproof, crap. We are so pissed about finding the overkill on the cosmoline application that it wasn’t until we quit cussing, yelling, and throwing things that I said,

“Hey, Earl. Uhhhhhh. Was there any Assembly manuel in your bike parts? How about an Owner’s Manual? No. Me neither.”

“Shit!” (Don’t wince, that was over 25 years before I went to seminary.) By now we had been at this mess for about an hour. It was around 9 AM, and I knew just what to do. I said nothing, turned and went into the kitchen and fixed me a pale, Earlesque Bloody Mary! Well, I was pissed and somewhere the sun was just going down. Here’s to where ever that was!

Thus fortified I plunged back into the garage prepared to attack the cosmoline with, with, with what? Gunk engine cleaner would work but wouldn’t do painted parts any good and had to be sprayed off with water. Gasoline would do it, but I wanted nothing to do with that in a garage with two guys who were more likely than not to forget and light cigarettes. We tried kerosene which worked pretty good, but was pretty smelly and tend to hang around in the air and make me sick to the stomach when I use massive amounts of it. So I decided to go down to the hardware store and get a couple gallons of mineral spirits, to the auto supply and get some spray cans of brake cleaner. Earl was glad to see me go. It gave him time to fix another “not so Bloody Mary.”

The mineral spirits worked, as did the brake cleaner on the smaller parts where it got into spots that were impossible to get a brush into. But it still made a hell of a mess and did not give up its attachment to the parts without a sticky fight. It took several hours to get all the parts clean and placed in the spots where they looked like they should go. I decided not to thank the geniuses at Benelli for most of the rags we used.

At this point I need to point out two things. While you couldn’t tell it by looking, neither Earl nor I had just fallen off the turnip truck when it came to motorcycles. While we had never seen this particular motorcycle, we had, together and by ourselves, stripped more than a few motorcycles down and rebuilt them. Here we at least had the engine and tranny completely assembled, the forks were assembled, the main wiring harness was in one piece and was color coded to the connecting wires in the headlight, etc.

The tires were already on the wheels and we assumed, and were right, that they had tubes in them. They would need balancing but that is not difficult. And, the rear sprocket was already attached to the rear wheel. The drum brakes and shoes attached to the wheels. These were not modern disk brakes which made it easier with no hydraulics to contend with.

And, my biggest fear was unfounded: Instead of just throwing all the nuts, bolts, connectors and fasteners into one big confusing package, each package had a small cotton pull string bag in it with the small connectors and fasteners associated with each part. I can’t tell you how much I appreciated that. When I found that out I was almost, but not quite, willing not to kill the first representative of Benelli I ever saw, not that any were likely to come to Bowie, Maryland.

So, in fact, it took us longer to get the parts out of the boxes, get the packages open and to get the damned cosmoline off the parts than it did to put the bikes together. Another surprise piece of good luck was that the oil sump had a dipstick in it so we could figure out how much oil to put in it. We started with Ethyl gasoline. Later we learned that regular would be fine. We took the top cap off the forks and found that they were prefilled, all to the same level. So we ran a dowel down inside the fork and recorded how far to refill the forks if we needed to later. We added distilled water to the batteries and were pleased that they did not need any additional acid , so we put them on the charger for an overnight trickle charge.

We started putting the bikes together in late afternoon. We had mine together by about ten that evening and Earl’s together by about midnight. They looked good, looked like they were put together right. Everything seemed to work. Even the primitive balancing we did of the wheels looked good, which ran free and true on the bikes.

I was grateful that Earl had, according to me, “wasted thousands of dollars” on one of the best garage shops man had ever seen. I wasn't going to give him the pleasure of admitting that. But there was nothing that we had to go out and track down in either tools or parts. Miracles do happen! Or, in this case, Earl was the miracle by having put together a state of the art car and bike repair shop.

Since it was getting late and we had only been drinking, or as we called it, sipping, since 7 AM, we looked at each other with a Cheshire cat grins and said almost in unison: "This calls for a drink!" Turned out he meant a celebration.

He dug out an unopened bottle of Remy Martin VSOP aged brandy, not the best, but far better than I would ever buy (I told you I was cheap a few dozen times, didn’t I?). Anyway, as I have hinted in earlier posts in this series Earl had this admiration for... no, that is not strong enough, Earl has this "need" for certain standards of civilized behavior that at first confused me, but that I later found to be both rather quaint and endearing.

He, to look at him, just didn’t look like he gave a damn about much of anything. But there were these rules he made up for himself that over the years he had made a part of who he was. Perhaps, and I am just guessing here - but it's a good guess - perhaps he needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t really a just a worthless hard scrabble kid from the Palouse of Eastern Washington, and that he could feign class with the best of them. He had no illusions that the acts of the high and mighty were rituals that meant much to them. But Earl had never been high and mighty and rich and well born, so as he chose the ones that would be his, these pretenses meant everything to him.

And so, Earl decided that getting those bikes together constituted a special event. A Sinatra album goes on the turntable and old Frank starts swinging with "I Get a Kick Out of You," "Luck Be a Lady," " My Kind of Town," "New York, New York" and "My Way." At least those are the ones I remember he liked best. My memory isn’t that good after all these years but I remember the things that count. I remember that was one of the things we both agreed on was this: there was nobody who could sing like Frank, then and now. He was still playing “records” when we visited him shortly before he died and Frank was still numero uno with him, and still is with me.

Then Earl disappears into the kitchen and comes back with the brandy, two giant Washington State yellow delicious apples (sent by one of his kids from “Home”?) and some Brie, already at room temperature and very soft, which means had this in his mind sometime earlier in the evening and took the brie out to soften!

So there we are. Two guys who grew up dirt poor half a country apart, him a hard scrabble kid of the Palouse and me a tenant farmer’s boy from the rolling plains of Kansas, both of us filthy dirty sitting in two leather chairs, listening to Sinatra, sniffing and sipping VSOP brandy from huge brandy snifters, smearing Brie on crisp, juicy, genuine Washington State apples.

Neither of us say anything for the longest time. Earl opens a drawer and comes up with an unopened pack of Gauloises, opens it and shakes one out for me and one for him. Now, I HATED the taste of Gauloises, but this was his moment, his proof of conquering the Palouse and all the people who told him he couldn't, his proof that he could be as sophisticated as the best of all those who held him in disrespect as he grew up, all those who told him he would grow up to be nothing worth talking about – and I wasn’t about to spoil that moment.

We lit up. He lifted his glass, and I lifted mine. He is pretty sloshed by now, but his voice is still clear, his movements show no sign of being drunk, and he says, not looking at me but at someone a continent and decades away, “How do you like me now, you pricks?”

Then he turns to me and says: “We’ll have those suckers running tomorrow!” (Actually the word wasn’t “suckers,” but it sounds similar.)

“You bet we will Earl, but as soon as I finish this brandy I’m going home, going to take a shower, sleep in my own bed, and not set the alarm. Nobody there is crazy enough to wake me.”

A few songs later Earl walks with me though the garage to the Honda. I start it up, put on my leather jacket and strap on my helmet. “Good night. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good night. Careful with that Honda, we got a big day tomorrow”

As I am riding away I look in my mirror and Earl is standing there in the driveway, brandy in hand, Gauloise perched between his lips looking up at the starry sky. I’m not sure what he was thinking but I imagine it was along the lines of non illigitamus carborundum. The kid from the Palouse was finally in a world of his making. That was worth celebrating. And I was glad to be part of it.

-30-

Motorcycles: A Magnificent Obsession, Part Six

First published DECEMBER 5, 2008 8:02PM

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250riverside

Related Posts - Motorcycles: A Magnificent Obsession: there are 10 parts to this memoir. You can find them listed in the archive sidebar on the right.

I subtitle this section of this memoir: “What’s In Those Crates Anyway?

We left off in this serial comedy of errors with the two Ward Riverside motorcycles, made by Benelli of Italy, being delivered by truck to the street in front of Earl’s house. Somehow we have muscled the first crate to the ground using the hydraulic lift on the back of the truck. Thinking it would be easier to get it into the back of Earl’s pickup so we could get it into the garage we decided to unload the second crate on top of the first one:

From Part Five:

“………So the guy let down the lift with the crate to just a bit above the top of the crate on the ground. Then with him on the ground supervising us, (how do that happen?) Earl and I start shoving the crate and after a few inches it sticks. We start walking it back and forth and inching it slowly forward. It sticks again and again. So we, Earl and I and a couple of neighbor guys who were in the gathering crowd watching this botched landing with smirks on their faces all four get up on the lift gate, and, under the watchful supervision of the truck driver, I go, “OK. On three. One. Two. THREE!!”

And we all shove as hard as we can. The crate unsticks, slides forward way too far and gravity does the rest. So there we are looking at this crate, splintered and busted all to hell, laying cockeyed on the ground. Earl looks at me and says, “That one’s yours.” Well, I’m not taking that crap so I say, “Who wants a beer?” I don’t even look at the crate but just make a beeline to the fridge in Earl’s house. When I come back with the beer the truck is gone. I ask Earl, “Where the hell did he go? We need to file a damage claim.” Earl says, “I told him that, but he said that we couldn’t file it because the insurance wouldn’t pay since we were the ones that damaged it.” Which pretty well explains why he was supervising and we were doing the shoving.

Anybody tells you truck drivers are stupid, have them talk to me. I’ve got proof they aren’t.

What next? With two crated motorcycles sitting in the street, dark approaching and one bike likely a dented twisted mess, what would you do? Me, I went inside and switched to scotch and soda.

Part Six:

I got my scotch and soda, heavy on the scotch, and walked out to see what damage we had done. The crowd watching the fiasco of the unloading had split. The two guys who had helped us destroy the second crate were long gone and we would not see them for a while, until they decided it was safe to show their faces to Earl.
Earl didn’t say much, more a mumble. All I heard was “turkey.” If you didn’t know Earl you would think that was what he was calling me for coming up with the lame brained idea of trying to slide the second crate onto the first. But I knew that what he said was, “I’m switching to Wild Turkey." When Earl says that it meant some serious drinking is about to occur.

He comes out in a few minutes and we both stand around staring at the splintered crate, him with his Wild Turkey and me with my scotch, serious drinkers we. When I figure he is mellow enough that he won’t take a swing at me I say, “Look, Earl, its not that bad. We can get your hydraulic jack, lift the one side of the bottom of the crates up until there is room to slide your rolling dolly under it. Once we have it of the dolly we can just push it into the garage.

Earl looked at me in complete disgust. “That damned driveway is STEEP. Did you think of that?” Well, actually I hadn’t, but my scotch thought my idea was brilliant. Time for Plan B.

“Let’s just look in the crates and see if we can get the bikes out and roll them up the driveway, then. That shouldn’t be too hard.” Now this was an idea Earl liked.

[Side bar: I need to tell you how motorcycles are normally crated for overseas shipment. The entire bike is assembled, complete. Then sometimes the front wheel is removed; sometimes not . The electrical areas, seat, lights, entire wheel assemblies and delicate areas are covered with a stretchable plastic film; and then the entire bike is sprayed with cosmoline, a sticky, greasy petroleum based product that prevents rust. The entire bike, sometimes sans front wheel, is stood upright in the crate, blocks are nailed to the bottom of the crate and stretchable cords are tied to 4 places at the top of the bike, front and rear, and fastened to the sides of the crate. There are variations on how that is done, but however it is done, most of the bike is already assembled.]

I handed Earl my scotch, which he promptly sat down in the grass, and I walked over to the splintered crate and started pulling some of the broken wood off the crate. Seeing that wasn’t going to work very well, I got a pry bar from the garage and started taking the crate apart.
Earl was helpful too. He took our drinks into the kitchen, poured another couple of ounces in each, added some ice and came back. He put my drink back in the grass, not wanting to stop me from actually working. It was about this time when I realized that this was "pay back" time. He showed me that we were still friends by freshening my drink. But he also was indicating that he was ticked off and had no intention of doing any serious muscle work. In other words, it was all my fault and I could bust my ass and he would watch. He wasn’t about to say that. But there it was.

I got one side and the top off the splintered crate, looked inside and couldn’t see a motorcycle. I couldn't believe it! Where the hell was it? And what did this crate that was shipped to us by mistake have in it? It was getting dark fast so I got a flashlight and looked in the crate again.
There, shoved up against one wall and surrounded by packages wrapped in what looked like old rags (it turned out they were old rags!) was something with the outline of a motorcycle frame, wrapped with what looked like a roll of cotton about 4" diameter, wrapped round and round that object. I lifted it out of the box, unwound it, and it was a motorcycle frame - wrapped in rolls of 4" white cotton ribbon. Kind of like it was a mummy. The frame was RED. I shined the light in the rest of the crate and it was half full of rag wrapped things. It was starting to dawn on me what we had here. But I said nothing to Earl.

By now Earl was wondering why I was so quiet, but I just started handing him the rag packages and we laid them out on the lawn. We unwrapped some handlebars. Then a fender; and another fender. Then a seat, a set of foot pegs. At that point we stopped, looked at each other and Earl turned, not saying a word, and headed back to the garage. In a minute or two he came strolling down the driveway with a wheel barrow. He rewrapped what we had opened, and stacked what we had taken out of the crate into the wheel barrow, gestured to me, pointing at the wheel barrow. He was still pissed. I took the hint and wheeled it up to the garage.

Three loads later we were down to the bottom of the crate. Wedged into the front and back of the crate were the wheels, wrapped not in old rags, but what looked like old Afghans. At least we were coming up in the wrapping department. In the center, wrapped in rags and then shrink wrapped in plastic was this huge, heavy object. You guessed it: the unit constructed engine/transmission. This was one Earl had to help with. We grunted and groaned and eventually got the heavy steel and aluminum unit into the wheel barrow and up to the garage. One down, one to go.

This, of course, called for another drink and the sharing of some gentile opinions with one another. After all we were professional men who worked in the Executive Office of the President.
Me: “What lame brained, mother##$@^ would ship a motorcycle unassembled?”
Him: “Did you know it was going to be unassembled or were you too damned enamored with your “Red Beauty” motorcycle to notice?”
Me: “Well, hell no. It didn’t say that. How stupid do you think I am, dips&^t.”
Him: “If you KNEW it was going to be unassembled why did you order it?”

Me: “I just told you – at least I think I did – that I didn’t KNOW, you drunk bast$*@!”

At that point it was clear to both of us, even in the condition we were in, that we had drunk our way past the conversation point. About this point, having had beer most of the day and hard stuff since late afternoon, we were in no condition to have an argument. And we never really liked to fight each other anyway. So we shut up and had another drink. That was one thing we always agreed on.

Having blown off a little steam, Earl drove his pickup down to the street and shined the headlight on the second crate. He looked at me and said, “Like I said, that one there in the garage is yours.” He was obviously thinking that not only was the 1000 piece jig saw puzzle in the garage likely damaged from the fall, but the bike in this crate was likely fully assembled, like ALL bikes crated for overseas shipment are!

Well, it wasn’t. So somehow, between refills of scotch and Wild Turkey, we got Earl’s RED 1000 piece Lego set out of the crate and unloaded on the opposite side of the garage.
Just a little note: After pushing the wheel barrow up the drive with the pieces of his new bike, it dawned on me that we could have just put the pieces of the bike into the back of Earl's pickup and driven it to the garage!
At that point I was the one who was drunk and pissed off. I had been too stupid, or drunk, to think of that when he first rolled the wheel barrow down the driveway. He never, to his dying day, admitted that he did that on purpose. Like hell he didn't!
Any way, we put the pieces of crates in the back of Earl’s truck and called it a day.
I wobbled into Earl’s living room and fell down on the divan. As Earl walked by from the kitchen to his bedroom, Wild Turkey still in hand, I yelled out, “G’night, Scarlett. We’ll think about this tomorrow.”

Next: “Now, where the hell are the Instructions?”