You’ve Got the Wrong Number

In keeping with the theme from my previous post, here is another true story from my consulting days. Some of these are just too good not to share.

I was auditing the employee safety program for a beer can manufacturer in Fort Worth. The audit was not going very well for the client because each time I would ask for some type of OSHA-required documentation, the safety manager would have to admit they didn’t have it. But when I asked him if the facility had a bomb threat plan, he perked up like a puppy who just heard the refrigerator door open. With the pride of a sixteen-year-old boy behind the wheel of his first truck, he said, “We didn’t use to, but we got one now.” 

Well, this response sent up a big red flag, so I asked him what happened that he felt the need to create a plan. 

He told me that one day a few months earlier, his administrative assistant’s phone rang. She was in the adjacent office, and he could clearly hear her speaking. 

“Oh, you want to report a bomb in our plant?” he heard her say. “Well, you’ve got the wrong number. Security takes all the bomb threats.” One would get the idea that bomb threats were an everyday occasion.  

She provided the caller with the number for the plant security office, hung up the phone and immediately called security telling them that someone was about to call in a bomb threat. Sure enough, this fool called the number she had given them, and security was able to identify the caller who turned out to be the wife of a recently terminated employee.  

Hearing her boss’s description, the administrative assistant chimed in from her desk, “Yeh, I knew who it was calling ‘cause I recognized her voice. She’s dumber’n a jar full of toe jam and I knew she’d call any number I gave her.” The safety manager told me he felt they might not be that lucky the next time so, he wrote a bomb-threat procedure. 

Are You from New Jersey?

Part of the enjoyment for me as a consultant/trainer was the anticipation of the unknown. Be it a manufacturing facility, office environment or a large distribution center such as Amazon or Adidas, I could never be sure what to expect when entering an unfamiliar workplace. This was especially true if I was training employees, because this would afford me the opportunity of having a face-to-face with employees who were usually more than willing to share their thoughts and complaints. 

I believe it was 1994 and I was conducting a four-day OSHA training class for an employer in Waxahachie, Texas, a small town just south of the Dallas/Fort Worth metropolitan area. If you find yourself in Waxahachie, Texas, either you’re on a mission, as I was, or you’re lost. Few people make their vacation plans to include Waxahachie-in spite of the various local oddities including the legend surrounding the ornate sandstone carvings adorning the Ellis County Courthouse (I’ll let you search it).   

The group consisted of 15 or 20 employees, mostly operators and maintenance workers. We began the class as usual by going around the room and having each attendee introduce themselves. This was thirty years ago so; I can’t tell you who was there except for one name that stuck in my mind-Rance Rogers. I remember commenting, following his self-introduction, that sounded like a good Texas name. Mr. Rogers proudly assured me it was. 

Sometime after I got into the first hour of training, Mr. Rogers raised his hand to ask a question. 

“Yes, Rance.” I said. 

“Are you from New Jersey?” he asked in a slow Texas drawl. 

“Well no. Why do you ask?” I responded. 

“Cause, I hate folks from New Jersey.” he replied. 

I asked him if I sounded like I was from New Jersey. “No.” he said. “But with your tie and all, I just wanted to make sure and asking ya seemed like the right thing ta do.” I removed the tie for the remainder of the week but have often wondered what would have happened if I had told him I was from New Jersey. 

The Stanley Cup

It was a good old-fashioned melee. Punches were thrown. Teeth were scattered. Hair was pulled and there may have been some biting involved as brawlers rolled across the floor fighting for the prized Stanley Cup. No, I’m not talking about hockey players or THAT Stanley Cup. I’m talking about Target shoppers pursuing the pink 40-ounce Stanley tumbler, the hottest gotta-have-it item since Covid era toilet paper. I invite you to read, or re-read, my post from March of 2020 about the great toilet paper shortage. The Great Toilet Paper Shortage | Writings and Musings by Bill Taylor (wordpress.com) 

Such crazes usually begin with trend-setters… young people, be they social media influencers or just popular kids at school. From this group the trends spread both upward (older) and downward (younger). In 2024 that would be Gen Alpha (those born between 2010 and 2024) and boomers such as me. Eventually, the Gen Alphas move on to the next craze filtering down while the boomers continue to hang on. Think Facebook and side-part hair styles. I’ll admit guilt to both. 

What is it that has people in such a frenzy that makes them feel they must rush out to Target in search of a pink water cup? I’m sure each has his or her reason. Some people actually collect tumblers and since this is a limited edition, it won’t be around long, making it more difficult to add to their collection later. Others see a financial opportunity. They can get this prized vessel from Target for around 45 bucks and then turn around and sell it for a nice profit. I heard of some selling for as much as $255.00. So, you buy two tumblers (the Target limit) for a hundred bucks and sell them for five hundred. This is tantamount to ticket scalping which is usually considered unethical and in some states is illegal. Yes, I know an argument can be made for supply and demand and whatever the buyer is willing to pay, blah, blah, blah, but that argument is outside the scope of this piece.

A third reason may simply be loving parents trying to please their child who wants to have the latest craze. This is not at all uncommon and I see nothing wrong with it as long as it doesn’t become an unhealthy materialistic craving which gets out of control. Kids have been wanting to have what the crowd had ever since Ogg, Jr. wore a necklace made from the tooth of a saber-tooth tiger to school. It’s natural and not unhealthy to want to fit in. I know a woman who bought two tickets to a Taylor Swift concert for $7,000 and then flew herself and her daughter several hundred miles to see the rain-soaked concert. Maybe this single mom could afford to give her daughter an $8,000 birthday present. More power to her. But if such lavish spending hurts her financially or leads her daughter to believe “mom will get me whatever I want,” then it is money ill-spent. 

Everyone is entitled to their opinion on this issue and most everyone has and is willing to share theirs. You are welcome to share yours here if you wish. As for me, I can only hope there is never anything I want desperately enough to hurt others or to sink myself into a financial abyss to get it. Everyone must live his own life. I’d rather not spend mine rolling around on the floor while kicking and gouging over a 1.4-pound chunk of aluminum.

Graveyard Dead!

I Posted this story 12 years ago but if your memory is as bad as mine, you don’t remember reading it. Anyway, it’s always been one of my favorite stories from my consulting days and I felt it was a good time to repost this true story.

Several years ago, city hall employees at a small municipality in North Carolina, passed the hat to collect money to buy a Christmas tree they could put in the lobby of city hall. It must have been a big hat because they collected enough money to buy a tree and enough decorations to make Clark Griswald proud. The spirit of Christmas filled the air as employees joyfully worked together to decorate the tree. Citizens visiting city hall, and employees alike, admired the tree which stood proudly as a symbol of the employees’ Christmas spirit. This was at a time when we didn’t have to worry about a Karen complaining about a symbol of Christmas on public property. There was, however, a Grinch.

One day the county fire marshal came into city hall. Seeing the tree, he informed the powers that be that the tree would have to be removed because it violated the fire code which prohibits a live tree in a public building.

City hall employees were devastated but undeterred. So many had contributed so much to provide a beautiful tree for Christmas and now the thought of having to remove it was unbearable.

A band of determined workers can be very creative and now was a time for creativity. After giving the issue considerable thought, someone came up with a solution. They called the county coroner who came to city hall, examined the tree and pronounced it dead. He even attached a toe-tag. The tree survived all the way through Christmas! Common sense-1, government-0!

 As Andy Griffith would have said, “There’s more than one way to pluck a buzzard!”

Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign!

Some will recognize the title of this post from the lyrics of Signs by the Five Man Electrical Band (1971). The song describes the influence of signs on society. More to the point, Signs was a protest song at a time when protest songs were in vogue. And while it may not have been the intent of the song, it illustrates how people will defiantly ignore signs and even violate the sign’s message sending their own message, that being, “you can’t tell me what to do.” After all, who drives 55 when the sign says 55? 

Recently, the pastor leading our Bible study (Shay Reyner) shared a story about a hotel on the Florida coast, which was so close to the water, you could actually fish from room balconies. So, the hotel posted signs in the rooms facing the water instructing guests not to fish from their balconies. And what did people do…they fished from the balconies. When the hotel removed the signs, guests stopped fishing from the balconies. 

Well, as he told the story, it reminded me of an experience which I thought I would share with my readers. 

I was teaching a class at a safety and health conference at a resort hotel in St Petersburgh Beach, Florida. Now unless you unlock your hotel room door with a metal key instead of a key card, you will find a sprinkler head somewhere inside your room. Somewhere in close proximity to that sprinkler head you will also find a small sign instructing guests NOT to hang clothes from the sprinkler head.

Do you understand why hotels installed those signs? Yep, because someone somewhere did it and it caused a real problem. You see, most people are unaware of how sprinkler heads work. The sprinkler head has a fusible link which is triggered by heat; so, when the sprinkler head reaches a certain temperature, oh, let’s say about as warm as air generated by a hair dryer, it opens and releases the water intended to douse a fire. And it’s a lot of water! 

Well, you guessed it: one of the guests hand-washed a sweater, put it on a hanger and then hung it from the sprinkler head installed directly above the bed. She wanted to wear it that evening so to speed up the drying process, she stood on the bed and began to blow hot air on it using her hair dryer. Unfortunately for her and the guests in the room on the floor below her, the fusible link melted before the sweater ever got dry. As a result, the sprinkler head opened and released enough water to float a battleship.  

Now, although unrelated to signs but still a story of interest, at that same hotel, that same week, another guest had a bit of a flooding problem. He returned to his room following a night of heavy drinking and decided to take a bath before going to bed. He began to run his bath but unfortunately for him, and again, the guest in the room beneath his, (my business partner at the time by the way), he passed out on the bed before he ever got in the tub, with and the water still running. Apparently, the tub’s overflow was unable to handle the influx of water and the tub overflowed. My partner on the first floor had to be relocated to another room.  

I suppose instead of using song lyrics to title this post, I could have used a movie quote. Take us home, Forrest. “Mama always said, ‘stupid is as stupid does.’”  

Knives or Guns?

Our five-man crew was flying to California aboard one of the C-130s stationed at Coast Guard Air Station Elizabeth City, North Carolina. Like seats aboard a commercial airliner, the seating inside the cargo section of a C-130, aka Herk (short for Hercules), is not designed for comfort. I once provided safety consulting services for a company that manufactures seats for all the major airlines, both foreign and domestic. The safety manager told me airline seats are designed for space and not comfort. Having logged more than three million miles aboard commercial airliners, I can say, he’ll get no argument from me. So, twenty-five hundred miles can be a long haul in the back of a C-130. It’s easily done but much more enjoyable if you can break it up. So, the flight plan was to make a stop and overnight in Houston.  

Seating in the rear of a C-130

Houston is a nice city, especially if you like good food. You can’t swing a dead cat in Houston without hitting a good place to eat. Good restaurants are about as common as doobies at a Willie Nelson concert. Since it was our first time in Houston, we looked forward to a good steak, especially given that good steak restaurants were non-existent in Elizabeth City in 1976.  

So, without a game plan, we headed out in our rental car in search of a great steak. On our measly government per diem, we weren’t looking for linen tablecloths and maître des.  Rather, we were more about cowboy hats and live music- and not a tableside violinist playing Laura’s Theme. We drove around for about twenty minutes until we came to a place on the edge of town. Actually, when in Houston, it can be hard to know when you are on the edge of town. You don’t realize you have left Houston proper until you come to a sign reading Baytown, Sugarland, or Pasadena. Anyway, we came to a place with a parking lot filled with dust-covered Dodge Ramchargers, Ford Broncos, and F-150s with dualies. The sound of Waylon, Willie and Tammy blared from inside. It turned out to be one of several places recommended by the young guy working the front desk back at our hotel. To me, it seemed like the sort of place where someone might crack a cue stick over your head if you asked the band to play something by Cher.     

We parked beside a Dodge Power Wagon with a chrome roll bar fitted with Kasey fog lights, a gun rack in the rear window and tires the size of those on our plane. It was covered in enough dried mud to build an adobe village. I couldn’t help but wonder how thin the air must be for the driver sitting so high above the ground. As we approached the door to the place, we were greeted by what appeared to be a real honest-to-goodness cowboy. Or, he could have been, as they say, all hat no cattle. He was about six and a half feet tall wearing roach kickers, a white cowboy hat, a black shirt with turquoise trim and turquoise inlay snaps down the front and on each cuff. He wore creased blue jeans and a silver belt buckle the size of a Frisbee. He may have won that buckle riding bulls at a rodeo or maybe he just fished it out of a claw machine at the state fair. Either way, it was an impressive accoutrement. It had an engraved message, but the rules of manly protocol prohibit a guy from lingering his gaze on another guy’s belt buckle long enough to read an engraved message. I didn’t want to know that badly. 

As we were about to walk through the door, Big Tex stopped us. In a slow Texas drawl that seemed to take a week, he said, “You boys gotnee knives or guns?”  

“No,” we told him. 

“Well, if you’re goin’ in this place,” he replied, “you might wanna git some.” 

Unaware of the location of the nearest hospital, we decided it might be in our best interest to eat somewhere else. 

Babe and I Join the Choir

I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a singer. Other than congregational singing or while working alone in my shop, I don’t do much singing and don’t really enjoy it like I used to. People would more likely pay me not to sing, yet, for twenty years, my wife (Babe) and I sang in the church choir. How did that come to be?  How is it that, I, a closet caterwauler, came to be a member of the adult choir at church for over twenty years. Well, as Paul Harvey would put it, “And now for the rest of the story.” 

Scarred for Life 

I grew up in a small Free Will Baptist church in Wilson, North Carolina. Somewhere around the age of 13, you know, right about the time a young lad’s voice begins to take on a mind of its own, my mother was director of the youth choir. For this reason, singing in the youth choir was not an option which was offered to me. My participation was mandatory in spite of my loud and vociferous protests. I screamed and shouted every Sunday morning but not because I was in the spirit. To make matters worse, the choir was woefully short of male voices and mine was one of only three, the other two being two to three years my junior. Singing melody in the key of G (for girl) made me sound more like a reject from the Vienna Boys Choir or like someone had just sat on a pig. I absolutely hated that experience and was sure I had been scarred for life by this forced humiliation. I would rather have licked shopping cart handles at the Piggly Wiggly than sing in the choir. 

NATC Millington

Fast forward to 1975 and I was in the Coast Guard attending a six-month-long school at the naval air station training center in Millington, Tennessee, just a few miles north of Memphis. Babe was pregnant with our first child at the time. Every Monday evening, students were required to “field day” the barracks. That meant giving it a thorough cleaning from stem to stern. I was required to stay on base and help with the cleaning even though I didn’t live in the barracks. Babe and I were living in an apartment off base, and I was moderately resentful over the fact I was required to participate in this extra duty which usually took us about two hours. Oh, I didn’t mind helping with the cleaning. These were my fellow students. My shipmates. My friends. The problem I had with the experience was a junior officer, Ensign Cohen, who was usually assigned as the officer of the day (OOD or simply OD). Ensign Cohen, fresh out of officer training suffered from a severe case of Napolean syndrome because of his five-foot six or so stature. He was far from pleasant to enlisted men and most folks tried hard to avoid him. There was also a chief boatswain’s mate, (Chief Whorton) who was the immediate overseer of the cleaning. The chief had a few years in service and was much easier to get along with. 

I could have opted out of barracks duty if I had chosen to. Students who volunteered to sing in the choir at the base chapel were not required to clean the barracks. I had chosen cleaning duty for two reasons. First, I still harbored the trauma of my youth and my experience with the youth choir. Second, as I said, to help my friends.  

Who’s in Charge Here?

One such friend, Van, about seven years older than me, shared the same surname as me. One particular evening, Ensign Cohen was not around and Chief Whorton had stepped away from the barracks for some reason. Knowing he was older than all the other students, the chief instructed Van to sit in the OD’s office and man the phones while he (the chief) stepped out. No sooner had the chief left the building than the phone rang. Van dutifully answered. 

“Is this Ensign Cohen?” asked the caller. 

“No, this is Petty Officer Taylor.” Van replied. 

“Well, this is Commander Harrison, where is the OD?” the caller asked. 

“I don’t know. He stepped out.” Van informed him. 

“Then let me speak to Chief Whorton.” demanded the caller. 

“He’s not here either.” Van informed him having twice violated military etiquette by not addressing the caller as “sir.” He likely would have gotten away with that in the fleet but on a training base such as Millington, there was a clear distinction between officer and enlisted and the arrogance of some of the officers and a few officers’ wives bordered on absurd. As a result, Commander Harrison was growing a bit irate. 

“I’d like to speak to someone with a little authority!” Harrison bellowed tersely. Unfazed, Van replied, “Well, I’ve got about as little authority as anybody. Won’t I do?” The phone call came to an abrupt end when Commander Harrison slammed the phone down. 

It wasn’t long after that when Ensign Cohen showed up. His short-haired head, looking more like a pimple with ears, was beet-red because he had just gotten a butt-chewing from Commander Harrison over the phone incident. I was the first one he saw when he walked onto the quarterdeck (the foyer). Seeing Taylor stenciled on my shirt, he blurted, “Petty Officer Taylor, follow me!” He led me into his office and began to rip me a new one. He began with some common four-letter words and worked his way all the way up to a few seven-letter gems. He called me words I had never heard before. I began to suspect he was so angry that he had run out of things to call me and was making up words just so he could keep going. I immediately realized there was a mix-up, but I chose not to interrupt him. Rather, with deep satisfaction and a hidden smile, I let him go on. It was as if I was not only handing him a shovel, but I was also helping him dig a deeper hole. He finally reached a point where he was running out of words and breath, so with great pleasure, I took the opportunity to tell him he had the wrong Taylor. Don’t choke over those crow feathers, ensign! 

Babe and I Join the Choir

Well, it was after this exchange I decided that while they were my friends, they could clean their own pigsty. I didn’t have to put up with that kind of behavior. I went home and asked Babe if she would like to join the choir at the base chapel. She agreed so the following Wednesday night we showed up at choir practice.  

The choir director asked me what part I sang. Part? What is this part of which you speak? I usually sing the whole song, not just part of it. Hearing my voice, he seated me with the bases and baritones. It was that night I began to learn about harmony. Listening to the bass voices around me I began to figure out how to sing bass. I liked it. It didn’t squeak!

The experience at the base chapel was a good one for both Babe and me and we would later join the choir after I got out of the Coast Guard and would continue as members for the next twenty years. 

“And that’” as Paul Harvey would say, “is the rest of the story.”  

The Restaurant Ruse

A memory from my past!

One year into it and I can honestly say, I love retirement. Don’t get me wrong; I loved my work and really enjoyed all of my co-workers. I would still be working today but for personal circumstances. But few safety consultants make money sitting at home or in the office. In order for me to do my job, I first had to get to the job and that usually required a seat on an airplane. But after 3 million air miles, thousands of restaurant meals, an estimated 4,500 hotel nights in 48 states and 22 different countries, I have had enough. No more TSA or crowded airports. No more rental cars. No more early morning flights or late returns. I am now residing in road warrior heaven…my own bed. Nope, no question about it, the best thing about being retired, for me at least, is no more traveling!

A few years ago, my company hired a young man to work as a fellow consultant. He came to my office one day asking for help. He told me he had never done much traveling and wanted to know what advice I could give him. We talked for quite a while and I was able to give him an abundance of helpful hints such as seats to avoid on a plane (it depends on the type of plane), security precautions to take at hotels and getting free rental car upgrades, but one of the best tips was what I call the restaurant ruse, or, Bill’s slightly dishonest scheme for better restaurant service.

I learned this innocently enough and quite by accident. Not long after I began frequent travel, I found myself on a return trip to Seattle. There was a restaurant within walking distance from my hotel at which I had eaten before. I recalled the service being a little slow but because it was so convenient, I decided I would return for dinner. The problem was, I couldn’t remember what I had to eat on the previous visits or if it was something I enjoyed enough to order again. I chose wisely from the menu and had a very enjoyable meal. When I returned to my hotel room, I grabbed the small notepad resting beside the phone and wrote down everything I had for dinner that night and gave each item a numerical rating from one to ten. I also rated the service, giving it a five.

This is a great idea, I thought. I’ll carry the notepad with me to any restaurant I go to and record and rate everything I have; that way, if I return on subsequent trips, whether two days or two years later, I can refer to my notes and hopefully make an informed dinner selection.

The next night after getting seated in the same restaurant, I pulled out my handy-dandy notepad and laid it beside my plate. I wrote what I had ordered so I would be prepared to rate it later. Soon afterward, there was a visible…no, make that an obvious improvement in the service. My server came to my table more frequently. At no time was my tea glass more than two fingers from full. My food was delivered hot, promptly and with a smile. I wasn’t sure what had happened but clearly there was a difference.

A group of geese is called a gaggle. A group of cats is called a clowder. I think clutch is generic, so I’ll say a clutch of servers was clutching by the kitchen and appeared to be looking at and talking about me. Whenever any of them would walk by my table, I noticed they would smile, speak and then look straight at my notepad as they whizzed past. That’s when I realized I had been incorrectly identified as a secret shopper, or secret eater, or whatever they are called in the food service industry. Whatever it was, it was gold! I was treated better than a rich uncle at a family reunion!

From that day forward, I always had a notepad when I went out to eat. At one point late in my career, I realized that not only was I still using AOL, I was still using paper notepads even though I had the capability of writing notes in my smartphone. To minimize a geezerly appearance, I began keeping digital notes but soon realized everyone else in every restaurant was texting, emailing or otherwise glued to their phones. I did not stand out. So, I abandoned the digital notes and returned to my notepads.

Try it for yourself. If you begin making notes and don’t notice improvement, hold up a fork or spoon as if you are inspecting it. Wipe it off with your napkin or better yet, request a clean replacement then immediately make a note in your notepad, or at least pretend to. Works every time. Well, almost every time. Don’t waste your time pulling this one at some greasy spoon like Bubba’s Taco Palace or Daryl’s Dine-n-Dash. Those employees don’t care if you enjoy your food or not or if you report bad service or not. In fact, there’s a chance you might get tossed out into the alley.

I was at a small privately-owned restaurant on Marco Island, Florida once and noticed a man standing near the kitchen kept watching me. I assumed he was the manager and had made the usual erroneous assumption regarding my identity, to which I was accustomed. Finally, he approached my table, introduced himself as the restaurant owner and asked who I was. This was not some naïve pimple-faced kid working part-time who is easily intimidated by a notepad. The wheels in my brain began to turn. Bells were clanging and whistles whistling. Be careful how you respond, I thought to myself. I don’t know that a secret shopper would reveal his or her identity in such a situation, so I decided not to use that one. I thought about telling him I was the food critic for the local newspaper but being in the restaurant business in such a small locale, chances are he would know who the food critic was. I could just tell him the truth, but this was a golden opportunity I couldn’t pass up so where’s the fun in that? So, I blurted the first thing that came to mind… “I’m a writer for Southern Living magazine doing a piece on the top eateries on Marco Island.”

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe I said that. In my mind, it sounded good but it slipped out before my neuro-censors could do any editing. He welcomed me, confirmed I enjoyed my dinner and then comped my fifty-dollar meal. Either he bought the lie (actually, I was half right; I am a writer after all) or, he decided I had so much hutzpah that it was worth a free meal.

While it may not be one hundred percent, I do pride myself on my honesty. Besides, taking a free meal under false pretenses would be stealing so, I came clean and told him the truth. I also told him I couldn’t accept the meal. He got a good laugh out of the situation and still let me have the meal on him.

Today, I have 33-years of notepads scattered all over the house. So, if you are going on a trip and want a suggestion where to eat, just ask. Chances are, I’ve been there. And if I have, it’s a sure bet, I have rated it.

Who Named That Bird, Anyway?

The Brown Booby

Sula leucogaster, more commonly known as the brown booby, is a large seabird with a four-foot wingspan. The brown booby is one of several species of the booby family. In addition to the brown booby, there are masked boobies, red-footed boobies, blue-footed boobies and others.

While in the U.S. Coast Guard, I was stationed for 12 months at Johnston Atoll, considered to be the most isolated area in the world. My 24 shipmates and I shared our 13-acre island with an estimated 750,000 tropical birds of many types, including various types of boobies. I enjoyed spending off duty hours wandering around the end of the island inhabited by the birds shooting pictures and listening to the near deafening sounds of three-quarters of a million birds.

As a part of his Christmas, my wife and I gave our five-year-old grandson, Cody, (see also: https://billtaylorcsp.wordpress.com/2018/06/20/never-turn-your-back-on-an-imp/ and https://billtaylorcsp.wordpress.com/2017/07/02/boys-precious-little-demons/ ) a subscription to Ranger Rick, Jr., a great little kids magazine. A copy was sent to our house as a thank you for the subscription. As I got my first look of this magazine, I was impressed by the stories and the interesting content. One particular story in this issue which caught my eye, was about seabirds and featured the blue-footed booby and frigate bird. My wife suggested it might be interesting to personalize the story by sending Cody pictures I had taken of boobies and frigates while stationed at Johnston Atoll. So, I wrote a little description, providing a little more detail than the magazine article, and included a few pictures, and emailed it to Cody, via my son and daughter-in-law.

It occurred to me, after I learned Cody had received his copy of the same edition, that if he found the information interesting, he might want to share his new-found knowledge of these seabirds of the Pacific. Half joking and half serious, I texted my son and daughter-in-law and suggested they be sure Cody doesn’t go to school and tell his teacher or friends that his granddaddy sent him pictures of boobies. His parents had already shared the story and the pictures in the magazine with Cody along with what I had sent. My son told me that Cody likes boobies. I hope I don’t wind up in jail.   

I Want for Nought

2020 has, without a doubt, been one of the toughest years our generation has experienced. Between flooding in the Southeast, record wildfires out west, and Covid-19 in every corner, we’ve seen death, suicides, loss of livelihood, loss of home and so much hardship. Everyone has been touched. Sometimes, we get so caught up in our distress, we forget that God has our back. There is no guarantee that 2021 will be any better but we have hope and we will always have God to lean on. We need not be afraid or discouraged by hard times. I refer you to these words from Joshua.

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9