As I continue this trek through the 243rd American Chemical Society National Meeting (read previous thoughts here) I couldn't help but think about Baskin Robbins.
I can remember going to Baskin Robbins ice cream when I was a kid and marveling at the huge array of ice cream options. They were constantly changing, and some of the names were unrecognizable with any known flavor of ice cream.
We used to joke that you could walk into a Baskin Robbins and utter any three words in the human language - "Rock, Paper, Scissors" or "Asphalt, Shoeleather, Feathers" and they'd give you three scoops and send you on your way.
Maybe a better analogy for today would be Ben&Jerry's.
The same thought hit me today while listening to chemist and researcher after chemist and researcher at this national meeting.
They use a lot of words that I've never heard. "Cowellia'' is not a county in Georgia. Oceanosyphologia - and don't hold me to the spelling of that one - is not a communicable disease you get from swimming in salt water. Heptones are not a music group; alkines and hopanes and terpaines and Chromatographic fractions are not ... well, I don't even know what those things are, much less what they are not.
We use a lot of acronyms in all of our businesses, and certainly that's true in what I do now with the world of energy - "AOR" and "SOMs" and "IMT" and on and on.
But the truth is, I'm convinced you could stand up in front of a bunch of chemists and link any three letters of the alphabet and hit on some chemical combination and they'd be nodding their head in complete understanding.
"PAH" and "ESI" and "DBE" and formulas like "C4C>C3C>C2C>C1C" and ESI FT-ICR MS make perfect sense to these folks.
And then, after hearing these litanies of letters and letter-number mix formulas, they all start to asking questions about consistency of Y axis on the graph and ... well, about the only thing I do understand is these guys treat graduate assistants like they are pledges in a fraternity. They joke about "that's a job for a grad student" or "we almost lost a guy on that, which is why we have grad students do these kind of things.''
There was one funny moment, however. The conversation in this room is all research done about the Gulf of Mexico after the Deepwater Horizon incident. At one point, one of the scientists asked if, given the apparent obvious resiliency of the Gulf ecology, that oil companies should focus its efforts in drilling in areas like the Gulf of Mexico.
One actual oil scientist laughed and said, "I can tell you that oil companies' decisions on where to drill will be determined by where they think they can find substantial amounts of oil and gas."
The response was, "It sure would help things if you guys would drill where there wasn't any oil."
And the oil guy responded, "That happens. Unfortunately, you don't stay in business very long when you do that."
So occasionally the conversation does get to a practical level that I can understand.
And we all LOL.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Revenge of the Nerds
I keep wondering if Mr. Jabbar would be proud.
This week I'm in San Diego, attending the 243rd American Chemical Society National Meeting and Exhibition. That number - 243 - is kind of hard to believe. If this is an annual event, it means they've been holding these things somewhere since 1769.
What is less impressive is that is about the only number I've understood in two days of attending seminars, listening to topics like "Biodegradation of armoatic and saturated hydrocarbons associated with oil in the water column" and "Chemical characterization and acute toxicity of water accommodated fractions from artificially weathered and field weathered MC252 oils."
I've never heard so much and understood so little.
But there is whimsy. I'm sorry to say I missed the presentation on "Lost in Translation: Why Lies, Metaphors, and Mixed Messages are Essential to Communicating Science."
I also missed "The Disappearing Spoon and Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and History from the Periodic Table."
Which brings me back to Mr. Jabbar.
The last science class I have any memory of taking was 10th Grade Chemistry, under Mr. Jabbar. The reason I have such fond memories of this class is that occasionally Mr. Jabbar allowed me to take him down a rabbit trail that had nothing to do with chemistry. He always had a quote from some philosopher on the blackboard - usually Kahlil Gibran (who, as it turns out, was not related to former Chicago Bears coach Abe Gibron, much to my dismay) - and, being a know-it-all, I would engage him in a discussion of whatever saying he posted, particularly if I could find reason to disagree with it.
Another interesting thing about Mr. Jabbar was that he was of Arabic descent, and (this being the early 1970s, not long after the 1967 Six Day War) another favorite topic between us was Palestine, and the conflict between the Arabs and Israel. He was the first person I'd ever met who argued for the Arabs.
Needless to say, I enjoyed chemistry on those days. So, apparently, did many of my classmates who - needing to catch up on homework or take a nap- would sometimes ask me to get Mr. Jabbar distracted with "one of those stupid discussions'' so they could get a break.
I didn't learn much chemistry. In fact, one day Mr. Jabbar asked me to hang around for a minute after class. It turns out he was worried about one of my friends who was also in that same class. Mr. Jabbar wanted me to encourage my friend, who was not doing very well in this class.
I remember saying to Mr. Jabbar, "Him? I'm not doing very well in this either!"
To which Mr. Jabbar replied with something I remember to this day. He said, "Ray, you're going to pass. You don't need to know chemistry because you're going to do all right in whatever you do. But (friend) doesn't have much going for him and he needs all the help he can get."
That says something about the people I hung around with, doesn't it?
Now maybe, in retrospect, that wasn't being a very good teacher. I can already hear parents screaming.
However, I appreciated that a teacher recognized my gifts were not in science and math but that I might be good in other areas, and that science and math were just boxes I had to check in order to get on to whatever I was going to do. He was affirming the fact that I was going to get my check mark, and that I needed to really pursue the other areas where I had some measure of ability.
Needless to say, my academic history is significant in my ability to navigate to a college degree and some graduate school while taking the absolute minimum of math and science. At the University of Georgia, I once stupidly signed up for a course in "logic,'' convinced this would be a fun course filled with discussing great ideas. Turns out it was a bunch of mathematical formulas, and after the second class I was down at 'drop-add' doing just that.
But back to today: this is a huge convention. It fills the San Diego Convention Center and several surrounded hotels. Even the reporters covering this stuff are smart - I got a card today from a reporter from "Chemical and Engineering News" who has a Ph.D. I never came across one of those in 25 years of covering sports.
I did engage this one major geek in a sports conversation, and even these guys do sports differently. He told me he and his wife decided to run marathons as a way to travel and see the world. So six months after they started, they were running marathons.
But not normal marathons. Apparently, there is this marathon in France through the wine country, and at every mile there is a table filled with shots of the local wine. All the marathoners stop and take a quick hit before continuing their run.
Yes, he said he was very dehydrated at the end of the marathon. In fact, he couldn't remember crossing the finish line.
They've inspired me, however. Next year, I'm presenting a paper on the "Degrading Properties of Ground Water."
You know - ground water; water that's passed through the turbines of a dam. My theory is that once it's passed through the turbines and been ground up, it's no longer any good for producing electricity, which is why you can't have multiple dams on a given river.
I need a co-author.
I wonder if Mr. Jabbar is still around?
This week I'm in San Diego, attending the 243rd American Chemical Society National Meeting and Exhibition. That number - 243 - is kind of hard to believe. If this is an annual event, it means they've been holding these things somewhere since 1769.
What is less impressive is that is about the only number I've understood in two days of attending seminars, listening to topics like "Biodegradation of armoatic and saturated hydrocarbons associated with oil in the water column" and "Chemical characterization and acute toxicity of water accommodated fractions from artificially weathered and field weathered MC252 oils."
I've never heard so much and understood so little.
But there is whimsy. I'm sorry to say I missed the presentation on "Lost in Translation: Why Lies, Metaphors, and Mixed Messages are Essential to Communicating Science."
I also missed "The Disappearing Spoon and Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and History from the Periodic Table."
Which brings me back to Mr. Jabbar.
The last science class I have any memory of taking was 10th Grade Chemistry, under Mr. Jabbar. The reason I have such fond memories of this class is that occasionally Mr. Jabbar allowed me to take him down a rabbit trail that had nothing to do with chemistry. He always had a quote from some philosopher on the blackboard - usually Kahlil Gibran (who, as it turns out, was not related to former Chicago Bears coach Abe Gibron, much to my dismay) - and, being a know-it-all, I would engage him in a discussion of whatever saying he posted, particularly if I could find reason to disagree with it.
Another interesting thing about Mr. Jabbar was that he was of Arabic descent, and (this being the early 1970s, not long after the 1967 Six Day War) another favorite topic between us was Palestine, and the conflict between the Arabs and Israel. He was the first person I'd ever met who argued for the Arabs.
Needless to say, I enjoyed chemistry on those days. So, apparently, did many of my classmates who - needing to catch up on homework or take a nap- would sometimes ask me to get Mr. Jabbar distracted with "one of those stupid discussions'' so they could get a break.
I didn't learn much chemistry. In fact, one day Mr. Jabbar asked me to hang around for a minute after class. It turns out he was worried about one of my friends who was also in that same class. Mr. Jabbar wanted me to encourage my friend, who was not doing very well in this class.
I remember saying to Mr. Jabbar, "Him? I'm not doing very well in this either!"
To which Mr. Jabbar replied with something I remember to this day. He said, "Ray, you're going to pass. You don't need to know chemistry because you're going to do all right in whatever you do. But (friend) doesn't have much going for him and he needs all the help he can get."
That says something about the people I hung around with, doesn't it?
Now maybe, in retrospect, that wasn't being a very good teacher. I can already hear parents screaming.
However, I appreciated that a teacher recognized my gifts were not in science and math but that I might be good in other areas, and that science and math were just boxes I had to check in order to get on to whatever I was going to do. He was affirming the fact that I was going to get my check mark, and that I needed to really pursue the other areas where I had some measure of ability.
Needless to say, my academic history is significant in my ability to navigate to a college degree and some graduate school while taking the absolute minimum of math and science. At the University of Georgia, I once stupidly signed up for a course in "logic,'' convinced this would be a fun course filled with discussing great ideas. Turns out it was a bunch of mathematical formulas, and after the second class I was down at 'drop-add' doing just that.
But back to today: this is a huge convention. It fills the San Diego Convention Center and several surrounded hotels. Even the reporters covering this stuff are smart - I got a card today from a reporter from "Chemical and Engineering News" who has a Ph.D. I never came across one of those in 25 years of covering sports.
I did engage this one major geek in a sports conversation, and even these guys do sports differently. He told me he and his wife decided to run marathons as a way to travel and see the world. So six months after they started, they were running marathons.
But not normal marathons. Apparently, there is this marathon in France through the wine country, and at every mile there is a table filled with shots of the local wine. All the marathoners stop and take a quick hit before continuing their run.
Yes, he said he was very dehydrated at the end of the marathon. In fact, he couldn't remember crossing the finish line.
They've inspired me, however. Next year, I'm presenting a paper on the "Degrading Properties of Ground Water."
You know - ground water; water that's passed through the turbines of a dam. My theory is that once it's passed through the turbines and been ground up, it's no longer any good for producing electricity, which is why you can't have multiple dams on a given river.
I need a co-author.
I wonder if Mr. Jabbar is still around?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Surrounding myself with much smarter people
My time here in exile has been interesting.
By "exile" I mean working in a different city than my family lives in. Don't get me wrong - I love the job, the people I work with, even working here in Mississippi.
During the week I'm in Mississippi, and on weekends - usually - I go home to Birmingham to see The Trophy Wife and The Young Prince.
But during the week, at night, it's just me.
The solitude in the evening has been helpful. It has allowed me time to think, to read, to learn. Above all, to read.
I have lived in two different places here along the coast, and both have been very close to public libraries. Currently I live almost directly across the street from the Gulfport library (next to a McDonald's and a Sonic). It has allowed me to get many books, books of different genre, fiction and non-fiction, essays, whatever. It has taken me awhile to realize I can check out a book and, if I don't like it, don't finish it. You wouldn't believe what a relief that is, because all my life I've always felt compelled to finish a book once I start it.
I find that in reading, I become more self-analytical. Books - all books - add perspective by making me think, prompting my mind to go places where it would not go on its own, unprompted. Books provide valuable insight, reminding us how all of us are different and yet very much alike.
I read somewhere that "Doubtless no man or woman has ever had any experience in life so unique that someone has not been there before." Likewise, I don't think there is a book I've read or a person I've met that hasn't had something worth knowing, if I've only taken the time to "read" (or listen, or ask).
Unexpected revelations occur when you least expect it. C.S. Lewis called it being "surprised by joy,'' those moments when you are overcome by such a wonderful feeling, yet you're not sure why. It's a moment that just feels ... right.
I consider reading the same as surrounding myself with really smart people. I don't always agree with them; some of them change my mind and some don't. Some I've really liked when I first "met" them, then the more I read the more I grow tired of them.
But all of them impact me.
One of the things I do is dog-ear pages where I read something that just seems profound. Like:
"Many of our sorrows can be traced to relationships with the wrong people."
"If a coach cannot stretch an athlete to a higher level, then there is really no need for a coach."
"When faced with a decision, many people say they are waiting for God. But I understand, in many cases, God is waiting for me!''
"Socialism is the end of all invention; it is the happy face of slavery. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves than by compelling each other to live as seems good to the rest."
"Develop the power to ignore what is popular and do what is right."
"Never forget that unjust criticism has no impact whatsoever upon the truth."
"Avoid lazy people. They will only frustrate you, and eventually drag you down."
I keep these - and many more like them - thinking one day I'll use them.
I guess I just did.
By "exile" I mean working in a different city than my family lives in. Don't get me wrong - I love the job, the people I work with, even working here in Mississippi.
During the week I'm in Mississippi, and on weekends - usually - I go home to Birmingham to see The Trophy Wife and The Young Prince.
But during the week, at night, it's just me.
The solitude in the evening has been helpful. It has allowed me time to think, to read, to learn. Above all, to read.
I have lived in two different places here along the coast, and both have been very close to public libraries. Currently I live almost directly across the street from the Gulfport library (next to a McDonald's and a Sonic). It has allowed me to get many books, books of different genre, fiction and non-fiction, essays, whatever. It has taken me awhile to realize I can check out a book and, if I don't like it, don't finish it. You wouldn't believe what a relief that is, because all my life I've always felt compelled to finish a book once I start it.
I find that in reading, I become more self-analytical. Books - all books - add perspective by making me think, prompting my mind to go places where it would not go on its own, unprompted. Books provide valuable insight, reminding us how all of us are different and yet very much alike.
I read somewhere that "Doubtless no man or woman has ever had any experience in life so unique that someone has not been there before." Likewise, I don't think there is a book I've read or a person I've met that hasn't had something worth knowing, if I've only taken the time to "read" (or listen, or ask).
Unexpected revelations occur when you least expect it. C.S. Lewis called it being "surprised by joy,'' those moments when you are overcome by such a wonderful feeling, yet you're not sure why. It's a moment that just feels ... right.
I consider reading the same as surrounding myself with really smart people. I don't always agree with them; some of them change my mind and some don't. Some I've really liked when I first "met" them, then the more I read the more I grow tired of them.
But all of them impact me.
One of the things I do is dog-ear pages where I read something that just seems profound. Like:
"Many of our sorrows can be traced to relationships with the wrong people."
"If a coach cannot stretch an athlete to a higher level, then there is really no need for a coach."
"When faced with a decision, many people say they are waiting for God. But I understand, in many cases, God is waiting for me!''
"Socialism is the end of all invention; it is the happy face of slavery. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves than by compelling each other to live as seems good to the rest."
"Develop the power to ignore what is popular and do what is right."
"Never forget that unjust criticism has no impact whatsoever upon the truth."
"Avoid lazy people. They will only frustrate you, and eventually drag you down."
I keep these - and many more like them - thinking one day I'll use them.
I guess I just did.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Desperado: the great Panama City raid of 1970
I was writing a post about praying when I hear a siren, and it reminded me of the first time I ever rode in the back of a police squad car.
Now, that raises questions, I know. Why was I riding in the back of a squad car? And perhaps more importantly, by saying "first time" it implies there were others.
There were.
But this first time was in Panama City when I was in high school. But this wasn't some gang of ruthless juveniles out tearing up the town, or some drunken brawl on the beach, or any of the "usual" activities that wind up with someone riding in the back of a police cruiser. Oh, my life was never that ordinary.
For one, I was with a bunch of guys from my church, including the youth minister from the church.
For another, it was the dead of winter, a time when nobody - back then - when to Panama City.
(By the way, when I was a kid and I heard about friends who went to Panama City, I thought they were going to the country of Panama. I couldn't figure out how all these people from my neighborhood could afford to just up and take off to Central America for a weekend - much less why they would want to. Needless to say, when I finally learned Panama City was in the Florida panhandle, it all made a lot more sense - and a sense of embarrassment).
Going to the beach in the dead of winter was an economic decision. The kids from the north side of Atlanta - the 'rich kids' - went to the mountains for their winter retreats, and the beach for the summer. But those of us from the south side - the 'not rich kids' - learned to take advantage of off-season rates.
So we'd have these youth retreats in Gatlinburg, Tenn., in the summer, and go to the sandy white beaches of the Florida panhandle in the dead of winter. And we had great times.
But I digress ...
This one time, Dan, our youth minister, arranged for a 'guys only' weekend trip to Panama City. Dan was a great youth director, and the things we did - in retrospect - were things that if our parents had known or, certainly, Dan's bosses at the church, probably would have gotten him fired.
Like riding on the top of the big yellow church bus, holding on to the luggage rack, while rolling through downtown Panama City, dodging the traffic lights as they whizzed by our heads. What the heck were we - and Dan, our 'adult' chaperon - thinking?
Or being left in downtown Atlanta at Fulton-County Stadium after a Braves' game, because some of us refused to leave early and said we'd walk home. (We had a plan. It would have involved walking south on I-85/75 for only a few miles - I didn't say it was a good plan - to an exit where a trucking company that a friend of my family managed, where we'd call for a ride home. However, things always had a way of working out for Dan. He came back for us, and found us in the midst of all the post-game traffic right outside the stadium. Dan could find a needle in a haystack in those days).
Anyway, in Panama city, we'd stay in some near deserted Holiday Inn and, yes, we'd have Bible studies and serious times of discussion about the Bible and what it meant to follow Christ. You'd have to have known Dan to understand how he did it, but it worked.
And then we'd go off and play games - football on the beach in the freezing cold, or at night something we called "Fox and Hounds."
In "Fox and Hounds," you divided into two teams. One team went out in the night along the beach to hide, and the other team went out to capture them.
Look, we didn't have video games or laser tag or high tech stuff. We actually had to go out and do stuff like this to stay engaged.
What made Panama City so much fun was that about half the beach-side motels would close in the winter, and we'd run through them, hiding or hunting the other guys.
OK, it sounds kind of lame, now that I think about it.
Unfortunately, sometimes the motels weren't closed, completely, for the winter. Even if they looked like it.
Anyway, it was late, and a couple of us were walking along, kind of casually looking for the other guys but mostly just talking, when we saw this group of three men and one boy standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot of this old motel that looked closed, but obviously wasn't.
The kid we recognized as one of the younger guys from our church; one of the men was talking at a pay phone in the parking lot, while another man was pointing a spear gun at our friend.
As dumb as I had once been about the location of Panama City, by this time I was a little smarter and quickly realized something was not right (Doh!) . So the guys - me and Keeve and I don't know who else - came into the courtyard to see what was going on.
The guy with the spear gun saw us and turned it on me. "Don't come any closer,'' he said. "We've called the police."
The other guys with me stopped, but I kept walking. I don't know - I guess I just didn't think he'd pull the trigger.
Fortunately, he didn't.
"Hey," I said. "that's Danny (not his real name; I remember his name, but there's no point dragging some guy into this story without his permission). He's with us."
And I proceeded to tell the guys that we were with a church group, down on the coast for a youth retreat, and we were out playing "Fox and Hounds'' on the beach, and that "Danny" was not supposed to go up into the motels (at least not if he was going to get caught). While I'm talking, a handful more of our guys strolled up to gather round, standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot next to a pay phone and a swimming pool that was covered for the winter.
"I never heard of a church group like that!" the guy said, and I have to admit, in retrospect, he was right. (This was before the days of David Koresh and "church groups'' that holed up in compounds with heavy artillery).
While I was explaining everything, these two squad cars came flying into the parking lot, probably happy to be able to respond to something during what was the off-season for tourism and, therefore, the off-season for trouble.
This started a whole new round of explanations: the guys who ran the motel told the police what was going on, and I - why I was the spokesman, I don't know, but I guess I've always been the talker - tried to explain what we were doing was harmless fun. (Unless, I suppose, you were managing a supposedly empty motel and a bunch of teenage guys were running around, ducking and hiding).
So the police load us up into the back of their squad cars.
There were four of us in the backseat of one car - Me, my buddy Keeve, a guy I'll call Jeff, and another guy I'll call Steve (because, again, what's the point in using real names without permission? These guys know who they are.)
The squad car was the real deal. I'd never been in one before, but I'd heard about them. Sure enough, there were no handles on the inside of the back doors, so you couldn't open the doors form the inside. There was the metal screen separating the back from the front. A shotgun was hung across the opposite side of the metal screen.
The policeman pulls out, taking us - well, we weren't sure where, until he called in got on the radio.
We're kind of talking and still trying to explain what was going on to the policeman, and suddenly Steve - who has been real quiet the whole time - says in a real serious voice that sounded like he was about to cry, "Guys, I think we should pray," and he bowed his head.
I'm ashamed to admit the rest of us laughed out loud.
At that point, the policeman got his dispatcher at headquarters and said, "This is Unit (whatever), and I'm transporting four juveniles back to the Holiday Inn."
That's when this guy I'm calling Jeff said with some force, "I'm 18; I'm not a juvenile!"
We all froze. Steve bowed his head even more. Keeve and I just looked at each other in horror.
And the policeman said, "Shut up, son. Tonight you're a juvenile - unless you want to go downtown to get booked."
"Jeff,'' I said. "Shut up, man. We're going back to the motel!"
"But I'm not a juvenile!" Jeff said.
I think Keeve punched him in the ribs at that point. Jeff shut up.
Turns out, the policeman was pretty cool. He raced back down the highway and took us back to the Holiday Inn where, as we got out, he said, "Look, it's late. You guys are going back to your rooms, right? You're in for the night, right? And, look - have a good time, but understand some of these guys who manage these motels can be pretty nervous in the winter. Stay off private property, ok?"
Needless to say, we agreed. The other car pulled in right behind with the other guys, and we all went back to our rooms.
Where we found Dan.
By this time we were laughing and having a great time, retelling the adventure, full of bravado because nobody wanted to admit to being scared, and couldn't wait to tell Dan.
But much to our surprise, Dan - who did indeed look a bit shaken - told us, "I know. I was watching the whole thing. I was in the sand dunes and saw what was going on."
"Why didn't you come over and help us?" I remember asking.
"When I saw the police cars, I was afraid they were taking you guys in,'' he said. "I knew someone was going to have to come down to the station to get you out. And I was wondering how I was going to explain this to the church."
I can't speak for the rest of the guys, but I was stunned that Dan had watched the whole thing and not come out of hiding to help us out. At the time, I thought it was cowardice on his part.
Later, I realized he was probably thinking about losing his job, which could have been the end of his ministry, his reputation as a youth pastor. Heck, again in retrospect, he probably should have been fired.
But we loved him.
And it was a different time.
And it was a good time.
For me, it was the first time in the back of a police car.
Maybe some day I'll write about the others.
Sidebar: we went back to Panama City again. And again, while running through what we thought was a deserted motel (nobody said we were fast learners), we got caught by a security guard who actually had a badge, flipped it out, and told us - I swear I'm not making this up - "read it and weep."
Then he told us to line up single file and walk back to the motel office. We fell in line, and all put our hands on our heads like prisoners of war. This time it was Mitch, I think, who started explaining the rules of the game we were playing. But Barney Fife didn't care.
However, once in the motel office, he gave us a good lecture. Meanwhile, I noticed that kid Danny - the same one from the previous story - lurking outside the office, watching and trying to stay hidden.
Somehow, Barney Fife agreed to let us walk out, which we did.
And as we stepped out from the glass doors of the motel office, Danny jumped out and proudly grabbed me, screaming, "Got you! You're captured! All of you are mine!"
Now, that raises questions, I know. Why was I riding in the back of a squad car? And perhaps more importantly, by saying "first time" it implies there were others.
There were.
But this first time was in Panama City when I was in high school. But this wasn't some gang of ruthless juveniles out tearing up the town, or some drunken brawl on the beach, or any of the "usual" activities that wind up with someone riding in the back of a police cruiser. Oh, my life was never that ordinary.
For one, I was with a bunch of guys from my church, including the youth minister from the church.
For another, it was the dead of winter, a time when nobody - back then - when to Panama City.
(By the way, when I was a kid and I heard about friends who went to Panama City, I thought they were going to the country of Panama. I couldn't figure out how all these people from my neighborhood could afford to just up and take off to Central America for a weekend - much less why they would want to. Needless to say, when I finally learned Panama City was in the Florida panhandle, it all made a lot more sense - and a sense of embarrassment).
Going to the beach in the dead of winter was an economic decision. The kids from the north side of Atlanta - the 'rich kids' - went to the mountains for their winter retreats, and the beach for the summer. But those of us from the south side - the 'not rich kids' - learned to take advantage of off-season rates.
So we'd have these youth retreats in Gatlinburg, Tenn., in the summer, and go to the sandy white beaches of the Florida panhandle in the dead of winter. And we had great times.
But I digress ...
This one time, Dan, our youth minister, arranged for a 'guys only' weekend trip to Panama City. Dan was a great youth director, and the things we did - in retrospect - were things that if our parents had known or, certainly, Dan's bosses at the church, probably would have gotten him fired.
Like riding on the top of the big yellow church bus, holding on to the luggage rack, while rolling through downtown Panama City, dodging the traffic lights as they whizzed by our heads. What the heck were we - and Dan, our 'adult' chaperon - thinking?
Or being left in downtown Atlanta at Fulton-County Stadium after a Braves' game, because some of us refused to leave early and said we'd walk home. (We had a plan. It would have involved walking south on I-85/75 for only a few miles - I didn't say it was a good plan - to an exit where a trucking company that a friend of my family managed, where we'd call for a ride home. However, things always had a way of working out for Dan. He came back for us, and found us in the midst of all the post-game traffic right outside the stadium. Dan could find a needle in a haystack in those days).
Anyway, in Panama city, we'd stay in some near deserted Holiday Inn and, yes, we'd have Bible studies and serious times of discussion about the Bible and what it meant to follow Christ. You'd have to have known Dan to understand how he did it, but it worked.
And then we'd go off and play games - football on the beach in the freezing cold, or at night something we called "Fox and Hounds."
In "Fox and Hounds," you divided into two teams. One team went out in the night along the beach to hide, and the other team went out to capture them.
Look, we didn't have video games or laser tag or high tech stuff. We actually had to go out and do stuff like this to stay engaged.
What made Panama City so much fun was that about half the beach-side motels would close in the winter, and we'd run through them, hiding or hunting the other guys.
OK, it sounds kind of lame, now that I think about it.
Unfortunately, sometimes the motels weren't closed, completely, for the winter. Even if they looked like it.
Anyway, it was late, and a couple of us were walking along, kind of casually looking for the other guys but mostly just talking, when we saw this group of three men and one boy standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot of this old motel that looked closed, but obviously wasn't.
The kid we recognized as one of the younger guys from our church; one of the men was talking at a pay phone in the parking lot, while another man was pointing a spear gun at our friend.
As dumb as I had once been about the location of Panama City, by this time I was a little smarter and quickly realized something was not right (Doh!) . So the guys - me and Keeve and I don't know who else - came into the courtyard to see what was going on.
The guy with the spear gun saw us and turned it on me. "Don't come any closer,'' he said. "We've called the police."
The other guys with me stopped, but I kept walking. I don't know - I guess I just didn't think he'd pull the trigger.
Fortunately, he didn't.
"Hey," I said. "that's Danny (not his real name; I remember his name, but there's no point dragging some guy into this story without his permission). He's with us."
And I proceeded to tell the guys that we were with a church group, down on the coast for a youth retreat, and we were out playing "Fox and Hounds'' on the beach, and that "Danny" was not supposed to go up into the motels (at least not if he was going to get caught). While I'm talking, a handful more of our guys strolled up to gather round, standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot next to a pay phone and a swimming pool that was covered for the winter.
"I never heard of a church group like that!" the guy said, and I have to admit, in retrospect, he was right. (This was before the days of David Koresh and "church groups'' that holed up in compounds with heavy artillery).
While I was explaining everything, these two squad cars came flying into the parking lot, probably happy to be able to respond to something during what was the off-season for tourism and, therefore, the off-season for trouble.
This started a whole new round of explanations: the guys who ran the motel told the police what was going on, and I - why I was the spokesman, I don't know, but I guess I've always been the talker - tried to explain what we were doing was harmless fun. (Unless, I suppose, you were managing a supposedly empty motel and a bunch of teenage guys were running around, ducking and hiding).
So the police load us up into the back of their squad cars.
There were four of us in the backseat of one car - Me, my buddy Keeve, a guy I'll call Jeff, and another guy I'll call Steve (because, again, what's the point in using real names without permission? These guys know who they are.)
The squad car was the real deal. I'd never been in one before, but I'd heard about them. Sure enough, there were no handles on the inside of the back doors, so you couldn't open the doors form the inside. There was the metal screen separating the back from the front. A shotgun was hung across the opposite side of the metal screen.
The policeman pulls out, taking us - well, we weren't sure where, until he called in got on the radio.
We're kind of talking and still trying to explain what was going on to the policeman, and suddenly Steve - who has been real quiet the whole time - says in a real serious voice that sounded like he was about to cry, "Guys, I think we should pray," and he bowed his head.
I'm ashamed to admit the rest of us laughed out loud.
At that point, the policeman got his dispatcher at headquarters and said, "This is Unit (whatever), and I'm transporting four juveniles back to the Holiday Inn."
That's when this guy I'm calling Jeff said with some force, "I'm 18; I'm not a juvenile!"
We all froze. Steve bowed his head even more. Keeve and I just looked at each other in horror.
And the policeman said, "Shut up, son. Tonight you're a juvenile - unless you want to go downtown to get booked."
"Jeff,'' I said. "Shut up, man. We're going back to the motel!"
"But I'm not a juvenile!" Jeff said.
I think Keeve punched him in the ribs at that point. Jeff shut up.
Turns out, the policeman was pretty cool. He raced back down the highway and took us back to the Holiday Inn where, as we got out, he said, "Look, it's late. You guys are going back to your rooms, right? You're in for the night, right? And, look - have a good time, but understand some of these guys who manage these motels can be pretty nervous in the winter. Stay off private property, ok?"
Needless to say, we agreed. The other car pulled in right behind with the other guys, and we all went back to our rooms.
Where we found Dan.
By this time we were laughing and having a great time, retelling the adventure, full of bravado because nobody wanted to admit to being scared, and couldn't wait to tell Dan.
But much to our surprise, Dan - who did indeed look a bit shaken - told us, "I know. I was watching the whole thing. I was in the sand dunes and saw what was going on."
"Why didn't you come over and help us?" I remember asking.
"When I saw the police cars, I was afraid they were taking you guys in,'' he said. "I knew someone was going to have to come down to the station to get you out. And I was wondering how I was going to explain this to the church."
I can't speak for the rest of the guys, but I was stunned that Dan had watched the whole thing and not come out of hiding to help us out. At the time, I thought it was cowardice on his part.
Later, I realized he was probably thinking about losing his job, which could have been the end of his ministry, his reputation as a youth pastor. Heck, again in retrospect, he probably should have been fired.
But we loved him.
And it was a different time.
And it was a good time.
For me, it was the first time in the back of a police car.
Maybe some day I'll write about the others.
Sidebar: we went back to Panama City again. And again, while running through what we thought was a deserted motel (nobody said we were fast learners), we got caught by a security guard who actually had a badge, flipped it out, and told us - I swear I'm not making this up - "read it and weep."
Then he told us to line up single file and walk back to the motel office. We fell in line, and all put our hands on our heads like prisoners of war. This time it was Mitch, I think, who started explaining the rules of the game we were playing. But Barney Fife didn't care.
However, once in the motel office, he gave us a good lecture. Meanwhile, I noticed that kid Danny - the same one from the previous story - lurking outside the office, watching and trying to stay hidden.
Somehow, Barney Fife agreed to let us walk out, which we did.
And as we stepped out from the glass doors of the motel office, Danny jumped out and proudly grabbed me, screaming, "Got you! You're captured! All of you are mine!"
Seeds from the Sower
Every time I hear a siren, I pray.
It's a reflexive action now, one that began in high school - and no, it's not because I'm afraid someone is coming for me (although there is that).
It doesn't matter whether it's a fire truck, a police car, an ambulance; it doesn't matter whether I hear it while driving down the road, sitting in my office, at home or in church. The reaction has become instinctual - a quick prayer for whatever the emergency is; for the responders, for the victims (if there are any), for safety, and most importantly that in whatever the situation might be, God's presence will be felt.
And then, I think about Michael Guido .
See, it is because of Michael Guido that I do this.
While Michael Guido sounds like an Italian mobster from the Godfather movie, in fact he was - Michael Guido passed away in 2009, at the age of 94 - what is commonly referred to as an "evangelist." He was a regular at the church I grew up attending, and his multi-media ministry, based in a then-small but prosperous Southern town of Metter, Ga. (town motto: "Everythings better in Metter!"), was a regular trip for the kids in this church.
Michael Guido was not Southern, by any means. He was exactly what his name sounds like - a Yankee from up north somewhere. A former big band singer, he settled in Metter because that's where the lady he married was from (and Michael Guido loved to say he "met her in Metter" and laugh like that was a funniest joke he'd ever heard). Besides preaching, Michael Guido was a singer and he produced short radio, TV, and newspaper devotional-type messages from his studios in Metter.
The thing about Metter, Ga., was that it had this wonderful old Southern town square, which happened to be the first place I ever ran into a Klan recruiter.
Right there on the town square on this summer Saturday afternoon was a table, with pamphlets and posters and all the propaganda of the Ku Klux Klan. There were a couple of guys manning the table, very open about being member of the Klan, and more than happy to talk to this goofy, long-haired kid from Atlanta. I don't remember them as crazy skinhead types, but just ordinary guys spending an ordinary Saturday doing what, for them, was an ordinary activity. No big deal.
Still, we all know the prejudice that the Klan stands for. And then you go a little way down the road and you run into the ministry of Michael Guido, as I said a Yankee, who always had what in my mind was this big Ernest Borgnine-kind of smile and seemed so full of love and grace and acceptance. Michael Guido became perhaps the most famous citizen of Metter, and his influence soon eclipsed that of the Klan.
Anyway, one time when Michael Guido was preaching at the church I grew up in, some kind of emergency vehicle went by outside, siren blaring. And the way I remember it, Michael Guido stopped in mid-sermon, explaining that he made it a habit to always pray when he heard a siren, which he proceeded to do.
Needless to say, that made an impression on me. I began to follow Michael Guido's lead from then on, and even now, these many years later, I can't hear a siren without throwing up a quick, silent prayer - and thinking of Michael Guido.
Many, many years later I was driving down I-59 in Alabama and I came across a Christian talk radio show. The host said his guest was this evangelist from Georgia named Michael Guido, who would be speaking at some conference that night, and he opened up the phone lines for people to call in and talk to Michael Guido.
Nobody did. The host kept getting Michael Guido to talk, and Michael Guido told about why his ministry was based in Metter, Ga ("I met her in Metter,'' he said, with that same big hearty laugh, as if it were the first time he'd ever thought of that joke). But nobody ever called.
The host was clearly embarrassed. It wasn't that he didn't usually get calls - I'd heard his show from time to time while traveling, and he did have some measure of popularity (enough to later be elected to the Alabama legislature). And he kept apologizing to Michael Guido, saying it was unfortunate that Michael Guido's radio broadcasts were not carried in this area so undoubtedly people were not familiar with him.
This was before cell phones, and I kept thinking I should pull off the interstate at the next gas station and call in, because I could ask Michael Guido about his radio ministry, about this big German Shepherd dog that he had that once rescued some wandering hobo out of the woods, about how I remembered him coming to preach at my church growing up and the impact he had on me - all these memories from my youth.
But I didn't.
And for days afterward, I felt bad about that.
Here's the thing, though - Michael Guido's ministry was called "Seeds from the Sower."
Funny how those seeds get planted, and what those seeds - all these years later - still produce.
You never know, do you?
It's a reflexive action now, one that began in high school - and no, it's not because I'm afraid someone is coming for me (although there is that).
It doesn't matter whether it's a fire truck, a police car, an ambulance; it doesn't matter whether I hear it while driving down the road, sitting in my office, at home or in church. The reaction has become instinctual - a quick prayer for whatever the emergency is; for the responders, for the victims (if there are any), for safety, and most importantly that in whatever the situation might be, God's presence will be felt.
And then, I think about Michael Guido .
See, it is because of Michael Guido that I do this.
While Michael Guido sounds like an Italian mobster from the Godfather movie, in fact he was - Michael Guido passed away in 2009, at the age of 94 - what is commonly referred to as an "evangelist." He was a regular at the church I grew up attending, and his multi-media ministry, based in a then-small but prosperous Southern town of Metter, Ga. (town motto: "Everythings better in Metter!"), was a regular trip for the kids in this church.
Michael Guido was not Southern, by any means. He was exactly what his name sounds like - a Yankee from up north somewhere. A former big band singer, he settled in Metter because that's where the lady he married was from (and Michael Guido loved to say he "met her in Metter" and laugh like that was a funniest joke he'd ever heard). Besides preaching, Michael Guido was a singer and he produced short radio, TV, and newspaper devotional-type messages from his studios in Metter.
The thing about Metter, Ga., was that it had this wonderful old Southern town square, which happened to be the first place I ever ran into a Klan recruiter.
Right there on the town square on this summer Saturday afternoon was a table, with pamphlets and posters and all the propaganda of the Ku Klux Klan. There were a couple of guys manning the table, very open about being member of the Klan, and more than happy to talk to this goofy, long-haired kid from Atlanta. I don't remember them as crazy skinhead types, but just ordinary guys spending an ordinary Saturday doing what, for them, was an ordinary activity. No big deal.
Still, we all know the prejudice that the Klan stands for. And then you go a little way down the road and you run into the ministry of Michael Guido, as I said a Yankee, who always had what in my mind was this big Ernest Borgnine-kind of smile and seemed so full of love and grace and acceptance. Michael Guido became perhaps the most famous citizen of Metter, and his influence soon eclipsed that of the Klan.
Anyway, one time when Michael Guido was preaching at the church I grew up in, some kind of emergency vehicle went by outside, siren blaring. And the way I remember it, Michael Guido stopped in mid-sermon, explaining that he made it a habit to always pray when he heard a siren, which he proceeded to do.
Needless to say, that made an impression on me. I began to follow Michael Guido's lead from then on, and even now, these many years later, I can't hear a siren without throwing up a quick, silent prayer - and thinking of Michael Guido.
Many, many years later I was driving down I-59 in Alabama and I came across a Christian talk radio show. The host said his guest was this evangelist from Georgia named Michael Guido, who would be speaking at some conference that night, and he opened up the phone lines for people to call in and talk to Michael Guido.
Nobody did. The host kept getting Michael Guido to talk, and Michael Guido told about why his ministry was based in Metter, Ga ("I met her in Metter,'' he said, with that same big hearty laugh, as if it were the first time he'd ever thought of that joke). But nobody ever called.
The host was clearly embarrassed. It wasn't that he didn't usually get calls - I'd heard his show from time to time while traveling, and he did have some measure of popularity (enough to later be elected to the Alabama legislature). And he kept apologizing to Michael Guido, saying it was unfortunate that Michael Guido's radio broadcasts were not carried in this area so undoubtedly people were not familiar with him.
This was before cell phones, and I kept thinking I should pull off the interstate at the next gas station and call in, because I could ask Michael Guido about his radio ministry, about this big German Shepherd dog that he had that once rescued some wandering hobo out of the woods, about how I remembered him coming to preach at my church growing up and the impact he had on me - all these memories from my youth.
But I didn't.
And for days afterward, I felt bad about that.
Here's the thing, though - Michael Guido's ministry was called "Seeds from the Sower."
Funny how those seeds get planted, and what those seeds - all these years later - still produce.
You never know, do you?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)