The first time I heard of him was of a mocking sort in
my Religion I class as a freshman in a Catholic high school. The teacher was
promoting the idea that the evangelist Billy Graham was a prophet. One of his
arguments was that he “only” accepted a $65,000 annual salary. The rich kids in
class, the majority, snickered. I wasn’t sure whether they considered it
hypocrisy or were just laughing at the paltry amount.
The next time I heard of Billy Graham was on the
radio, twenty years later, during the memorial services for the victims of the
9/11 terrorist attack. His deep, pained, soulful voice throughout the sermon at
the National Cathedral carried so much weight, so much forgiveness and comfort,
that it left both the wife and I truly floored.
The third time I heard of Billy Graham, the second
time hearing him speak, occurred nearly eight years later. I was spending my
first night in the hospital pre-diagnosed with lung cancer. Turned out it
wasn’t, but I did spend the next nineteen days there getting treated for what
it ultimately was. That first night was a weird one for me. I wasn’t actually
scared but … energized. More than a little uncertain about the future, but my
gut told me it wasn’t cancer. Still, there was a finger of fear noodling
somewhere in my chest. I couldn’t sleep. I turned on the overhead TV and
channel surfed. I came across a Billy Graham crusade.
Forget which one it was, though I watched it for two
hours. He was famous for his “crusades” ever since the ones held in Los Angeles
in 1949. This was recorded in black and white, and guessing by the fashion
styles, must’ve been early 60s. I listened and, despite it all, was quickly
drawn in. My parish priest visited me the next day. I told him about watching
the crusade the prior night and asked him about Graham’s teaching. “Nothing
that Billy Graham says,” my priest informed me, “is incompatible with Church
teaching.” I felt similarly, but needed the ecclesial affirmation. It sold me.
When I did get out of the hospital, recuperating at
home and looking for work while raising a six-month old daughter, I found time
to read The Journey: How to Live by Faith
in an Uncertain World. No, I am not a born-again Christian, still Catholic
despite the nonsense and non-sense in the Vatican. But the book touched a nerve
within. I spent the entire month reading and re-reading it, the second time
compiling a list of all the Bible verses Graham quoted. It was quite an
extensive list.
Two or three years later I picked up a three-pack of
Billy Graham books, three books bound together in a sturdy hardcover. I read
them all, and got comfort from them all. I re-read the first selection, Peace with God, which was originally
published in 1953, a year ago. I have a fond memory going through it on a warm
spring afternoon at the park, just after tax season ended, in the bleachers
watching a high school baseball game while my daughter ran practice laps for an
upcoming track meet. It’s a good memory.
So when I saw this morning that he just passed away at
99 of “old age,” I wasn’t sad. He had long spoken in interviews and in his
writings of a desire to be “called home.” His wife of 60+ years predeceased him
by a decade. Though its borderline presumptuous, I’m about a hundred percent
certain he has received his eternal reward for a life well-lived. The wife and
I plan on sending a donation to Billy Graham ministries tomorrow, and I would
encourage you to do the same.
So cool to discover something that gives me the
chills. Something I would’ve listened to thirty-five years ago, when first
foraging through the varying echelons of progressive rock. Back in those days,
impoverished, I’d tape record off my boom box whatever grabbed my fancy as soon
as I’d hear the first notes of the tune. Emerson Lake and Palmer. Yes. The Who. Moody Blues. The Doors. Jethro Tull. And listen to it over and over until the magnetic tape
worn out.
Later, after a painful trip to the dentist, my mom
gave me some money to buy some cassettes. I bought Led Zeppelin and Led Zeppelin
IV. That steered me in an entirely new direction, for, a year or so later, I
met some friends and began listening to Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Judas Priest, and
other, harder offerings of 70s rock than the keyboards, sustained chords, and
non-4/4 time signatures of prog rock.
This past August on vacation for whatever reason I listened
quite intently to Genesis’s The Lamb Lies
Down on Broadway. Stuck with me. Stuff I could’ve listened to way back
then, but, as chance would have it, was never played on a radio station I was
listening to at the time. This is old Genesis, 70s Genesis, Peter Gabriel and
Steve Hackett Genesis, before the remaining Genesis crew (Phil Collins, Mike
Rutherford, Tony Banks) morphed mid-80s into the soulless corporate hit tune
generating machine. In other words, intensely interesting and cool Genesis.
I particularly dig this song, “The Fountain of
Salmacis,” off their 1971 album Nursery
Crime. (Yes, Phil Collins has been around that long – as well as Peter
Gabriel.) I like it because it has as its theme characters from Greek
mythology. I like it because of those incredible apocalyptic chords at the end.
I like it because of the dual dueling lines of lyrics in the chorus. I like it
because it has an epicness about it packed into its eight minutes that you don’t
hear in songs of the last two or three decades.
I like it because it gives me chills.
THE FOUNTAIN OF SALMACIS
From
a dense forest of tall dark pinewood,
Mount
Ida rises like an island.
Within
a hidden cave, nymphs had kept a child;
Hermaphroditus,
son of gods, so afraid of their love.
As
the dawn creeps up the sky
The
hunter caught sight of a doe.
In
desire for conquest,
He
found himself within a glade he’d not beheld before.
Where
are you, my father? / Then he could go no farther
Give
wisdom to your son now lost / The boy was guided by the sun
And
as his strength began to fail
He
saw a shimmering lake.
A
shadow in the dark green depths
Disturbed
the strange tranquility.
The
waters are disturbed the waters are disturbed / Some creature has been stirred
Naiad
queen / Some creature has been stirred
As
he rushed to quench his thirst,
A
fountain spring appeared before him
And
as his heated breath brushed through the cool mist,
A
liquid voice called, son of gods, drink from my spring.
The
water tasted strangely sweet.
Behind
him the voice called again.
He
turned and saw her, in a cloak of mist alone
And
as he gazed, her eyes were filled with the darkness of the lake.
We
shall be one / She wanted them as one
We
shall be joined as one / Yet he had no desire to be one
Away
from me cold-blooded woman
Your
thirst is not mine
Nothing
will cause us to part
Hear
me, O gods
Unearthly
calm descended from the sky
And
then their flesh and bones were strangely merged
Forever
to be joined as one.
The
creature crawled into the lake.
A
fading voice was heard:
And
I beg, yes I beg, that all who touch this spring
May
share my fate
We
are the one / The two are now made one,
We
are the one / Demi-god and nymph are now made one
From January to April I work two jobs. This is my
second year doing so. The night job is something I never thought I would (or
could) do: sell, basically, though it’s low-pressure. The day job is something
I’ve done for four different companies over fifteen years.
I have discovered I love one and hate the other.
Funny, how things turn out.
I think it boils down to how I’m perceived as a wage
slave. Er, employee, I mean. I feel
valued and respected in the one, and just a replaceable cog in the machine of the
other.
By day I process payroll for over 600 employees,
spread out in three divisions over twelve physical locations. I have two days
every two weeks to get everything submitted to our payroll company. I hold
myself to a high standard: 99.9 percent accuracy. My average payroll is
$650,000, so that leaves me a margin of error of $650. It’s stressful because a
lot of hands touch the payroll besides mine – those of the employee, the
manager, and the payroll company. But it’s fun and zen and I enjoy doing it and
rarely can a mistake over $650 be laid at my feet.
What I hate, though, is the death-by-a-thousand-cuts
that happens during those other eight days of the pay period. Yeah, I have
certain reports and tasks that need to be done, activities that comfortably
fill those eight days. But I have a phone, an email address, and “superiors”
who can walk in to my office. After giving it a bit of thought, I realize that
every week I get about 35-40 “problems” tasked to me to resolve. Some are
little, some are big, a few are interesting, most are hassles I care little
for. About a third can be fixed on the spot. Ten percent of the remaining turn
out to be debilitating, morale-killing grindhouse projects.
By night (and Saturdays with some Sundays thrown in) I
prepare tax returns for clients. Federal and any state, though primarily New
Jersey and New York. It’s a job that fits neatly into a pie chart divided into
three sections: One-third relationship and rapport with the client, one-third
knowledge of tax law, one-third expertise with the computer system. Every night
I go in there’s a thrill, I must admit. Any one thing in any of those pie chart
sectors could go awry. Last night, for example, I had a young married couple in
and had them laughing, talking about their honeymoon at the Amalfi coast, had
their federal return completed with a nice fat refund, but, for the life of me,
I could not get New York to tax only the wife’s New York income and keeps its
greasy hands of the husband’s New Jersey income. It was a software thing. No
overrides worked. I felt a little embarrassed. They were a little peeved. They
will return on Monday, so I gotta figure it out by then.
What I love, though, is the camaraderie I have with
the other tax pros there. We all help each other. We empathize when another has
a nasty client. We tell war stories with glee. And there’s a friendly
competition to see who can bring in the most $ on any given day. I’m not
micromanaged. I’m not given problems to solve. All I do is serve the client by
promising him or her the best refund possible or the least liability owed. And
I offer tips and suggestions for an even better tax year for when they return
to me in 2019.
Now here’s the million dollar question – if I had a
million dollars, would I still go to work? And my gut tells me (I need to rely
on my gut because my head has consistently messed me up for, well, most of my
adult life) … my gut says that I would continue the night job. In fact, I think
this is a soft urging to tell me to get out of the payroll business. For I have
discovered I’m having far too much fun selling and interacting with clients.
Make no mistake, it’s not all Fourth-of-July fireworks
and parades doing taxes; it can be quite stressful,
but the stress is of a different breed than the stress I feel having those 35-40
problems shoveled atop me every week at the day job. Proactive stress versus
reactive stress. Eustress versus distress.
I guess that’s all I wanted to say. The weird
dichotomy I’m living through right now is so mind-blowing to me that I haven’t
been able to put it into words until now. And I’m not sure in this post I’ve
done a good job of it.
Carry on, and don’t forget to get yer taxes done by
April 17!
EDIT:
Oh – forgot to mention perhaps the biggest reason for
this dichotomy: I NEED my day job whereas I DON’T NEED my night one. Right from
Day One I went into the tax thing as, “I’ll do this to see if I like doing it
and I’ll continue to do it until it stops being fun / amusing / interesting.”
That’s a great attitude to have going into a new job. Perhaps the key attitude.
Most of us are wage slaves so we need that job to keep on the hamster wheel
society says we must tread evermore on. What a key difference the outlook that you don’t
NEED a certain job is to the enjoyment and mastery of it.
An innovative airline launches a worldwide advertising campaign to promote its two newest, bestest airplanes.
One is called the “Diversified” and is exuberantly exclaimed to be built with the best diversified workforce in the world.
The other is called the “Qualified,” and is exuberantly exclaimed built with the best qualified workforce in the world.
Tickets go on sale today, the same price for both aircraft, to a destination anywhere.
Question:
Which one would you buy a ticket on?
*******
Now, we all know the answer.
But some might protest, “The most diversified workforce will naturally be the most qualified workforce.”
To which I’d reply:
Maybe. Maybe not.
Then I’d further respond:
Why do you assert this? Are you postulating some ironclad law of human nature? For it seems to me, were I to be partnered with another individual in the cause of attaining a specific goal (such as building the best aircraft), we’d fare far better if we were closer in thought, attitude, skill and education than if we weren’t. “Homogenous,” so to speak, in regard to thought, attitude, skill and education as opposed to “diverse.”
Or are you using a different variable to measure “diversity”?
*******
Has anyone anywhere over the last forty or so years asked the question, “What exactly is meant when the culture speaks of ‘diversity’?”
DOCTOR: Captain, how soon can you land? CAPTAIN: I can’t tell you.
DOCTOR: You can tell me, I’m a doctor.
CAPTAIN: No, I mean, I’m just
not sure.
DOCTOR: Well, can’t you take a guess?
CAPTAIN: Not for another two
hours.
DOCTOR: You can’t take a guess for another
two hours?
CAPTAIN: No, we can’t land for
another two hours.
Yes, it’s one of the many classic interchanges from
the movie Airplane! with Leslie Nielsen
playing the doctor and Peter Graves the airline captain.
Little One and I watched it yesterday on my night off.
Oh how hard we laughed. Patch sat in periodically and chuckled too. The scene
where the husband takes a second cup of coffee from the stewardess and the wife
thinks, echoing, Jim never drinks a
second cup of coffee at home … only to be followed ten minutes later by Jim,
barfing after being food poisoned, and the wife again pondering in echoes Jim never vomits at home … had tears streaming
down my eyes, and tears down Little One’s when she noticed the tears down mine.
Ah, good binding times.
Next on deck: The
Naked Gun (fast-forwarding through the risqué stuff, of course). Time to
introduce my little playwright to the comedic genius of Leslie Nielsen.
