A Penny's Worth

How often do you bend over and pick up a penny on the sidewalk? "Pick up a penny??? Why bother? What can you get for a penny?"

Well, I stop and pick up pennies all the time. There's a number of reasons why I do it. Number one: After I pick up 100 of them, even if they've been run over and nicked up and scratched, I can trade them in for a dollar. If you saw a dollar on the street, would you pick it up? Of course you would. It's the same thing except you have to pick up more pennies first to get to the dollar.

Number two: it's good for me to bend over and flex my waist and back muscles. Sometimes I squat down and flex my gluts and thighs. The older I get the more important it is to maintain flexibility, so I guess you could say I'm getting paid to do a little exercise.

Number three: sometimes the penny is near a nickel or dime or quarter. If someone has tipped change out of their pocket when they're getting in their car, there may be more than pennies lying around.

Number four: You can put them in the penny tray at the convenience store. How many times have you taken a penny without putting a replacement in later? If you pick them up off the ground, it doesn't cost you anything and you won't feel bad next time you have to use one from the penny tray. Pennies can assuage guilt.

And number five, the main reason: Pick up a penny and look at it. Over Lincoln's head are the words, In God We trust. Every time I bend over and pick up a penny, I am reminded that God is trustworthy and that He is looking out for me. I can't tell you how many times I have been stressed over one thing or another, and when I get out of the car and look down, there's a penny. I can't always see the words, but I know they're there. In God We Trust. A reminder of who I put my trust in. It's much more than just a phrase or a few trite words; it's a way of life. Trusting God, that is, not picking up pennies.

Let's say you are faced with a stressor like a test or a speech. Let's also conjecture that you claim to trust in God's plan for your life and His promise that you are more important than a bird. Now put it into perspective. Say it to yourself, "Because I trust in God, I'm going to let this test/speech get the best of me and fail miserably." Because I trust in God, I can't win. Because I trust in God, I have no future. Sounds pretty silly, doesn't it?

Start with "Because I trust in God ..." and then tag on whatever trial you are facing. You'll start to grin and realize that worrying runs counter to what God wants for us. Try it. I think you'll like it. I can't take credit for stumbling onto this, either. I read it somewhere else and I realized how completely true and correct it is.

We all get tripped up when we read Philippians 4:6 where it says, "Don't worry about anything; instead, pray about everything." (NLT) My response has always been something along the lines of a very deep and philosophical, "Yeah, right!" But I'm learning to trust. And part of the lesson has come in the form of pennies with a reminder that God is worthy of our trust. Proverbs 3:5-6 says "Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight." (NIV)

The next time you see a penny, pick it up and accept that blessing from God, that little hug over Lincoln's head that reminds us Who is in charge. Maybe it's God's way of inviting us into a conversation with Him.

I guess you still can get something valuable from a penny.

© 2008 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved

The Reason Why

Some folks look at the long, dry spells between my posts and may wonder why. If you look back at my regular website (www.zimmac.com), where I used to post stories before web-logs became blogs, you'll see I went through dry spells there as well. It's because writing is a creative outlet for me. I don't have a best-selling novel hidden away in me, but I do have ideas and stories I like to express and I use them as a way of sharing what's in my head with others. 

I believe that everybody needs a creative outlet and it doesn't have to be in the mainstream of creativity. I used to work in a restaurant kitchen many (many) years ago and cooking food for people is a creative outlet. Writing music and singing songs are also outlets for me. But I think I really love to use words to get it out of my system. 

About two years ago I went back to college to finish what I started back in 1975 (Whoa, dude! You're, like, really old, man!) Since then I have had to use up the words I would have used for creative outlet to fill up papers for history and English and Communications classes. I used a lot of my creative juices when I took college Algebra (I think I sprained a muscle in my brain, but I got an "A").  It seems like there is always a project of some sort due, especially in World Civilization and American Government, to say nothing of putting together speeches for, um, Speech class, y'know. So my creative juices have not run dry, they've just been diverted.

So why this sudden burst of posts? It's Spring Break. Woo-hoo! Oh, wait; no woo-hoo for me. It just means I get to sleep a little later some days but it also means I get to work a little longer some days – those days when I usually have to go to an evening class and leave work early. I did email my parents back in northern Minnesota (where it's been below freezing this week) that I was going to have to go to Daytona Beach and get drunk with all the rest of the college kids. I told them I really didn't want to, but it's what college kids do, so my hands were tied. Yeah, right. Like a 51-year-old, overweight, balding man who's gone back to school to become a minister of music is going to go and par-tay with the kids. Snort, chuckle and guffaw. 

All the reading, writing and 'rithmatic I've been doing has gotten me used to having an outlet for the words and ideas that flow through my brain. Suddenly, that outlet has been temporarily pinched off, and I find myself stuffed with words that need to come out. So I returned to that thing I enjoy and which leaves me feeling as though I have actually done something that may last longer than I: putting those words to paper (or actually just into cyberspace). Someday someone may stumble across my blog or website and read something and feel their cockles warmed or chuckle at something I went through and realize they're not going through life alone and that someone else has felt the same thing they have. They may read I Should Have Raised Goldfish and realize they are not terrible parents, just tired and war-weary. 

So I've just got words that need to come out sometimes. And that's the reason why. 

© 2008 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved

On Our Way to 200K (miles, not dollars)

It all started so innocently, so properly and for all the right reasons. It was just supposed to be an oil change, two new tires and, "Oh yeah, there's a little leak up front. I don't know if it's a hose or what. See if you can fix that." It wasn't a challenge. I just knew that I was leaking a little coolant because I had suddenly started seeing a little spot in the driveway under my car and it was antifreeze, not oil.

It's a 99 Chevy Malibu, and it's been a pretty good car for the most part. I like the way it feels on the inside, with plenty of room for everyone who rides in it, front seat or back. I got the V6 so I can get some good passing speed when I'm on the highway. We got it in 2000 after it came out of a car rental fleet in Oklahoma. It ran perfectly for the next two years, and then it went into a ditch in the middle of a Minnesota winter and lost the back bumper and dinged up the front one. Those things were fixed by insurance and we went on with our lives.

Every mechanic says it is fine, but ever since that night when the ditch appeared where road was supposed to be, the ride has been slightly different. It's as though the car is slightly crippled or arthritic, maybe. No one can find out why, but there's a creak/rattle in the front right that wasn't there before the ditch incident (hereafter to be referred to as the ditch-ident) and which is not there all the time. It only really makes itself known when you're running the A/C or the heat. After the compressor has run for a bit, it seems to make a rattling noise when you go around corners or over a bump. Nothing I haven't been able to live with, but it still preys on your thoughts that something is not quite right with the car and you never fully trust it after that.

After dropping the car off this morning for the routine maintenance, I went home and did my usual morning stuff. After a couple of hours my wife called to see if the car was ready so we could get back to our normal routine with both of us mobile and independent. That's when the routine got all shook up.

The little leak? It's called a water pump. And some gasket and as long as we have the top of the engine off, the spark plug wires are cracking and the serpentine belt needs replacing .... how much? "Well, we'll have to look and total ... the water pump business is going to run $957, plus tax. Then there's the tires and the oil change, which are already done, and the other parts and labor." We still don't know; it won't be done until tomorrow. It'll be somewhere between $1500 and 2-grand. As my wife reminded me today: This is why we have a savings account.

Plus, think about how much we haven't paid in car payments in the last 5 years, which is when we refinanced the house and rolled some loans together and consolidated our debt. So it'll be like having a new car. Almost. Parts of it will be new, in any case. And maybe I'll be able to put some faith in it again. I'll be happy if the rattle is gone.

The funny part? (Yes, if you look hard enough there's always a funny part.) The funny part is that the last thing I told them when I dropped it off was that my wife had just reminded me that we won't have this car for another 100,000 miles, so don't get the most expensive tires. With that much money dropped into it, maybe we WILL have it for another 100,000 miles!

© 2008 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved

On Getting Older

Isn't it great getting older? Oh, wait ... no, it's not. Unless you really like aches and pains and getting up more often in the night to pee and taking more medicines and having all your internal systems slow down and needing more sleep but you have to get up more often in the night to pee ... I said that already. Sorry.

I find it humorous the way people don't want to offend you by pointing out your age, so they use euphemisms (if you're under 30, you might not recognize that word, since it's not very easy to send as a text message) like "50 and better."  Or usually "55 and better" since at 50 it's only the AARP that wants you think you're better than you were when you were 49.

I take that back. My wife and I did take advantage of some Mature Traveler discounts last summer when we drove up from Georgia to West Virginia to see our son. Mature Traveler - through Choice Hotels - starts at 50, and the discounts we got were worth admitting that I have made it to the next level. It was ok to be called a Mature Traveler, mainly because they didn't call me that to my face or insist on an ID to prove I was actually over 50. Born in 1957, I am not only a child OF the 50s but am IN my 50s.

They could just ask you what year you were born in, and you either reply quickly or get a very confused look on your face and start to stammer, "I should know this ...." You've seen the tobacco warnings at the grocery store by the checkout (in the one lane that lets you buy tobacco)that say, "You must have been born on or before this date in ____ year in order to purchase tobacco products." They could say, "You must have been born on or before this date in 195_ or not remember exactly what year you were born in order to take advantage of this senior moment discount." And that just gave me another scary thought: in two years, the 50 and better club will include people born in 1960! Yikes!

So I am a Mature Traveler who is 50 and Better. There are 50 and Better travel clubs, Sunday School classes, and senior center clubs, among others. I'm not technically a Senior Citizen, yet, because - I think - that milestone doesn't start until you hit 65, although it sometimes comes into play when you hit 55 as two of my older brothers have (as of 2008). They may not be senior citizens, yet, but they do belong to the Old Codger Club, the Curmudgeon Coalition and the Fraternal Order of Old Farts (FOOF).

(Is that a real organization? FOOF? I should look it up before I make fun of it!- MKZ)

Some places on the web talk about "Senior Citizens and Over 50s." Others refer to Mature Adults, Mature Workers, Senior Adults, "50Plus, 60Plus and Senior Citizens," and the very generic "Seniors." Less charitable places refer to geezers, fogies and old-timers. I don't think of myself as any of those, even though my driver's license and eyeglass prescription both expose that lie. ("Eyeglasses." That's another thing only old people refer to, as if there was a different kind of glasses you would wear on your face!)

My mind still thinks I am 26, but my body responds by saying, "Double that, mister, and you might get close!" When my mind and my body come together in one accord, then I'll think about joining AARP. Until then, I think Ill just be better than 50.

© 2008 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved

It's (Still) In the Basement

You come into the house after school and you pause to listen. You try to hear whether you're home alone, or if you can detect the quiet sound of your mother in the kitchen. You gently sniff the air for the aroma of fresh cookies or bars, or a pie or cake still cooling in the kitchen. You strain to hear the voice of Patsy Cline, Hank Williams or Jim Reeves emanating from the old Bakelite AM radio perched on the shelf above the washer in the basement. Your ears hope for the rhythmic swish-choog of the washer and your mother's alto harmonies to the country songs on the radio as she plugs away at the never-ending mountain of laundry. Nothing. You are home alone, alone with IT.

You are alone in a century-old house with a basement that smells of wet dirt, decaying potatoes, mildew and fuel oil. It’s a basement that surely harbors the graves of people who lived in this house right after the Civil War and probably died of wounds suffered in that war or at the hands of disgruntled Indians seeking to reclaim their land. You are alone in a house with a basement that contains a dirty, dark room once used to store coal. Who knows what gangster from the 1920s or 30s is hidden just behind the plastered walls of that room, the flesh long gone from bones still standing erect, hands and feet still bound from the day they walled him in alive for some breach of gangster etiquette.

Worst of all, as you realize just how alone you are in this house, is the thought which bursts unbidden into your brain: you are just inches above a creature that thrives on basement environments such as yours. All that separates you from IT are a few flimsy floorboards. You know, and IT knows. "IT" is the most unnerving of house monsters, because this one can actually be seen, heard, even touched (!), day or night. IT is the Furnace Monster.

How could your mother not be home when you got there? You count on her to be here doing mom things, because somehow, she keeps the monsters of the house at bay. Perhaps they fear discovery and banishment by a grown up, or maybe they simply can't fathom the full extent of her power, since monsters don't have mothers. Or maybe they DO have mothers, and it's out of respect or fear that they remain dormant in her presence. You know your mother couldn't beat anything more scary than an egg, but the monsters always stay away when she's home. Today, though, she is not. It's just you and IT.

Growing up during the 60s in Redwood Falls, Minnesota (pop. 4774), we really did live in an old house with an ancient basement, a fruit/root cellar, an old coal bin and an even more ancient furnace. Once a coal-burning unit, it had been converted by some mad scientist into a fuel-oil burning furnace, probably just after the discovery of oil. I would not be surprised to discover that this furnace was designed when man still lived in caves and dinosaurs had not yet decomposed into rich pools of petroleum under Texas and Kuwait.

Unlike today’s compact, ninety-nine percent efficient gas furnaces with whisper-quiet motors and plastic PVC-pipe exhaust chimneys, ours was a room-size behemoth with asbestos octopus tentacles for ductwork. There were spaces around the door on the front through which a small boy could catch glimpses of the fires of Hell. Surely this was a gateway to the Underworld, and I knew if I ever opened the door I would have been sucked inside and carried down the River Styx by a skeletal boatman. You could almost hear the howling hounds of Hell guarding the gates each time the furnace kicked on. Plus, IT was sentient. This was not just a piece of equipment, IT was alive.

Whenever I was home alone, the furnace knew. No matter where I was in the house, IT would cause the ductwork nearest to me to go "clunk," so I would know that IT knew I was alone. Sometimes IT would make a series of clunks around the house, causing my head to snap from side to side as I tried to keep IT from sneaking up on me from behind. That's the nature of house monsters, you know. They torment you like a cat with no appetite that has caught a mouse. It plays with its terrified prey, allowing it to almost escape, but always hooking it back at the last moment with a razor-sharp claw.

House monsters will drive you crazy by being everywhere and nowhere at the same time. You feel its malicious presence as you try to go through your normal routine, but are unable to because of the feeling of eyes boring through your back. IT knows you are alone. IT knows you are small, and IT knows you fear its awesome size and power.

IT inhabits that dark, hidden-away part of your house where sunlight never gains the upper hand. Disgusting, many-legged insects scurry when the lights are turned on, insects with so many legs they look as though they must have once been many insects all running in single file until a sudden stop compressed them together into a single organism. IT lives where people are loath to go, hidden in the dark corners where spiders set their traps, and flashlights can never fully illuminate.

Grown-ups usually deny the existence of the Furnace Monster, but if you could wipe clear the windowpane to their memories, and sift through the images inside, you'd find a dark corner where flames dance red and yellow, and tiny streaks of light escape through the gaps around the heavy metal door. It is there, forced back into a small, gloomy corner, perhaps, but still there: The Furnace Monster.

If you don't believe me, just ask a friend some time if he or she remembers the Furnace Monster. Watch their eyes. They remember. They know.

© 1996/2006 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved