Jim Bishop: Miata cruise set for Sunday
Yes, Virginia, there will be a fall cruise of area Mazda Miata mavens (that’s you!). The date: Sunday afternoon, Sept. 25 (sorry if you already have a conflict).
Once again, participants will assemble at the lonely Waterman Square Shopping Center parking lot, corner of W. Market Street – Rt. 33 west – and Waterman Drive. Please arrive by 12:45 p.m. or earlier to check in, have introductions and receive a few reasonable rules for the road. The fall route will take in a portion of the Skyline Drive from the Swift Gap entrance east of Elkton north to Luray, east on Rt. 211 to New Market and then either US 11 or Rt. 42 south to Harrisonburg, with stops at Big Meadows and Skyland Lodge. The voyage will be held rain or shine, but a warm, sunny day is, of course, preferred.
Please note that there is a $15 entrance fee to Skyline Drive, but those distinguished senior citizens in the group can purchase a lifetime entry permit for only $10, so come prepared. Any snacks, drinks, etc., purchased at Skyland should be the only other expense incurred (as long as drivers show up with a full tank of gas).
Hope you can join in the fun and fellowship on the 25th. Questions? Feel free to contact Jim Bishop at this jimanna.bishop@gmail.com or home phone number: 540-434-6208.
What have you got to lose (except a few $$ for gas and entrance fee)? Let’s cruise!
Jim Bishop: Swan song-A fugue of bittersweet music
“Friends, I will remember you,
Think of you, pray for you . . .”
- The late John Denver (1971)
Urban legend has it that novelist Louis L’Amour (1908-1988) was speeding along at his typewriter and his daughter, a child at the time, asked, “Daddy, why are you writing so fast?” Louis replied, “Because I want to see how the story turns out!”
I can relate on two levels: one, the majority of my journalist career was spent pounding away on typewriter keys, first a manual Royal Standard and then an IBM Selectric II. I prided myself on increasing my words per minute count without making airers (stet).
Secondly, I’ve cranked out a lot of articles at a fast pace because there were so many wonderful stories that needed to be told. One of my few regrets as I slowly slip into retirement are those tales that didn’t get written because I was often running down other trails, pursuing projects I deemed less significant but were part of my regular work flow and expected of me. I would have preferred to see how those unwritten stories would turn out.
And now, I’m pondering what direction my own story will take as I cast some final thoughts into cyberspace.
In my dreams, perhaps, but in reality I little imagined that an initial rant I pounded out on my manual typewriter and submitted to the News-Record lamenting what I deemed the sorry state of popular music – and this was early 1990 – would evolve into a regular Saturday feature on those pages that would last 21 years.
“Bishop’s Mantle” – I was asked to give the essay a name and that was my suggestion – premiered Feb. 20, 1990. I was elated that the DN-R ran my cranky piece. I basked in the moment; surely this was my 15 minutes of fame, and the accolades that came from many quarters.
Buoyed by the reactions, I dipped my quivering quill into the inkwell and scratched out another mini-dissertation, this one some practical pointers on strengthening marital relationships (as if I was some kind of authority). In a few months, these uneven discourses morphed into a weekly conversation (I never did know when to stop yammering) in the “Saturday” Skyline section of that paper.
The dialogue expanded when the News-Record established its own web site and posted the column on line. I often forgot this until a response came from a reader at a distance. This also provided a helpful reminder to be careful what I wrote, because one never knew who might be reading or might forward a given piece to others at a distance who may or may not necessarily be enamored by my take on a given theme. Such encounters proved helpful learning experiences.
I have been heartened by the numerous reader responses regularly received in person, by phone, by email and even handwritten letters. Being told that something I wrote connected with them, or they were helped or encouraged with some personal struggle or doubt was the best affirmation this writer could receive. I even received birthday and Christmas cards from complete strangers (“fans of ‘Bishop’s Mantle”) or was told that they cut out and pasted a certain article on their refrigerator or informed their spouse, “You need to read this.”
I’ve believed for a long time that this outlet provided a regular “escape valve” from the pressures of the more routine writing that was part of my daily schedule. The column, along with other avocational pursuits such as radio and other free-lance activities, helped energize my daily toil while also helping keep me on track with my many ongoing deadlines. I sought to take the approach that this weekly communiqué was a sacred trust that could easily be abused or used as a platform to promote my work place, EMU.
“Thanks” seems like such a meager effort to express of my sincere gratitude for all the affirmations received all these years. The criticisms too for the most part were constructive and graciously delivered, seldom did I receive a personal blow below the belt. These treatises opened many doors to speaking engagements, often about the writing task, to area organizations and school groups, where I interacted and tested ideas with persons I otherwise may never have had opportunity to meet. What a joy and privilege; I have been blessed beyond measure.
It’s been a great ride, and the journey isn’t over. There are more columns to write, stories to tell (and, oh no, more pundemoanium) to share. Some of this will simply happen in other times and spaces in the days ahead.
I don’t like saying goodbye, letting go and moving on, but I do so with this proverb that hangs in our kitchen, words that I’ve tried to live by and in turn commend to you:
“Dance as if no one were watching,
Sing as if no one were listening,
And live each day as if it were your last.”
Jim Bishop retired June 30, 2011, after 40 years as public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Contact him at jimanna.bishop@gmail.com.
Jim Bishop: Retired-Do not spindle, fold, mutilate or commiserate
For some time, I wondered what I would do and how I’d feel on my last day of work; ditto for the following day, my first official day of (gulp!) retirement.
Well, now I know, because I’ve been there, done that.
Honestly, in the aftermath, I’m not sure I have it all figured out. And, that’s okay, I think.
It definitely was an emotional roller coaster – and I like roller coasters as long as I’m securely strapped in – but perhaps I was expecting some things to happen that didn’t, and some things I didn’t expect did occur.
I picked June 30 for my farewell because it’s the last day of my workplace’s fiscal year, and my work patterns year after year followed that schedule; so, why not stick with it to the end.
However, I wish I had a dollar for each time someone came up and asked, “So, how you enjoying retirement?” This question began surfacing around commencement, two months before I left active duty, and accelerated each passing week. Not sure what that says.
It reminded me of the other question that came my way year after year following graduation: “So what do you do all the time now that the students are gone?” My stock answer, “Oh, I play Solitaire on my computer and wait for someone to call asking me to write another news release.”
I’ve told many people that what has caught me up short – other than reminders that the regular income spigot will be turned off and not reopened – is how quickly this retirement stage of life has arrived. While we’ve been grateful for the financial counsel and other advice from professional quarters and from persons already knee-deep into retirement, nothing quite adequately prepared me psychologically for this transition.
So how was “the last day?” It started by writing and distributing one last public service announcement to area radio stations and other outlets, followed by an “exit interview” with a human resources representative in which I was informed that I would receive some remuneration for a number of vacation days not taken. I surrendered my faculty ID and was issued a “retiree pass” that will provide free admission to public and sports events. One must gather his token perks wherever he may.
I was assigned a retiree mailbox, tried the new combination several times and was unable to open it. Postmistress Betty Hertzler came out nonchalantly opened it in one try and went back inside. I tried again to open it, unsuccessfully.
Betty came back out and watched me try to open the box – “I’m loving this,” she chortled – and told me what I was doing wrong. I tried once more and, voila, the door swung open to reveal absolutely nothing inside.
I had lunch at a downtown bistro with another EMU person who was retiring from EMU’s development office, Art Borden. Only at age 83, he had retired several times from a variety of positions, each one different than what he left college expecting to do. It felt good to reflect on our respective experiences, to be able to honestly say that we had done what we felt called to do, were leaving with multiple satisfactions and looked forward to whatever lies ahead.
I felt under the gun to have my office completely empty by the end of the day with someone else planning to move in the next morning. By early afternoon, I knew I wouldn’t meet that deadline, so I hastily piled files and other materials into boxes, promising myself that I would come back and review each one methodically and make more careful, realistic decisions about what gets pitched and what should be forwarded to the school’s archives.
It was rather unnerving to watch box after box of old files, news releases, clippings, catalogues, magazines and photographs that had been removed earlier being transported down the stairs and out the door, essentially my life’s work now departing for a “new” home. I hope and pray that much of this accumulated material will prove valuable to those who will be charged with writing the centennial history and other narratives of the noble institution I was privileged to work for these four decades.
My employee health care and other fringe benefits expired at midnight, and my Medicare and supplemental health insurance cards, now tucked into my wallet, kicked in.
The next morning, July 1, I didn’t set my radio alarm, but awakened just 10 minutes later than my usual 5:30 wakeup call. I wonder how long it will be before my sleep habits change. I have no desire to start watching late night television – or daytime TV for that matter – or revert to my teenage days of sleeping half the day away, especially Saturdays. I look forward to nursing that third cup of robust coffee on pleasant mornings on our patio, listening to parakeet Ozzie’s energetic serenade, reading the newspaper slowly, and thinking, “Hey, I don’t have to rush in to work and crank out that feature article that I keep putting off.”
Wife Anna is about two weeks into her retirement and is already adjusting to new patterns and schedules. Me, I won’t feel like I’ve actually entered this new phase until all those wretched boxes have been analyzed and their contents properly distributed.
Then, perhaps, I can begin reinventing myself.
Jim Bishop retired June 30, 2011, after 40 years as public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He is retaining an email account at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: Declare your independence – throw this pundemoanium overboard
This time of year, the cost of fireworks is expected to skyrocket. I made the mistake of buying some discounted fountains, then discovered there was no way to light them. It was an offer I couldn’t re-fuse.
I then thought of erecting a small tee pee in the living room and putting a hamster in it. Why? To celebrate indoor-pet-tents day.
Instead, I’ll go outside and stare at the rooftop antenna I no longer need since cable was installed. This way I’ll have an aerial view of the upcoming fireworks display.
While we’re waiting, I will think once more – always a scary undertaking – and launch a few misguided missives and cheery bombs your way. Jose, can you see . . . ?
One Sunday morning, a mother went in to wake her son and tell him it was time to get ready for church, to which he replied, “I’m not going.” “Why not?” she asked. I’ll give you two good reasons,” he said. “One, they don’t like me, and two, I don’t like them.” His mother replied, “I’ll give you two good reasons why you SHOULD go to church: One, you’re 59 years old and two, you’re the pastor!”
“WHERE is my SUNDAY paper?!” The irate customer calling the newspaper office loudly demanded to know where her Sunday edition was. “Madam,” said the newspaper employee, “Today is Saturday. The Sunday paper is not delivered until early tomorrow morning. There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a ray of recognition as she was heard to mutter, “Well, that explains why no one was at church either.”
Synergy: the code word that lazy people use when they want you to do all the work.
Tintinnabulation has long been my favorite word. It just has a nice ring to it.
The paws that refreshes: When people see our cat’s litter box, they always say, “Oh, have you got a cat?” Just once I want to reply, “No, it’s for company!”
Yesterday’s high was 78 and the low was 45, but neither were records.
No matter how much you push the envelope, it’ll still be stationery.
All the waterfowl kept their eyes closed except for one. He was a Peking Duck. The rest eventually quacked up.
I received a bee on my exam in an apiary class.
When asked about rumors that he owned a bakery, Shakespeare replied, “It’s much a-dough about muffin.”
If “adverse” is to make a poem longer, then is “reverse” the consequence of these adverbial one-liners?
“I’m losing my hair,” he bawled, and “This wind is awful,” he blustered.
“I presented my case to the judge,” Perry Mason said briefly.
“I love the novels of D. H. Lawrence,” said the lady chattily.
We’ve taken over the government,” the general cooed.
“I dropped the toothpaste,” he said, crestfallen.
“It’s time to play my wild card,” Jack deduced.
“I want this statue to look like the Venus de Milo,” said Art disarmingly.
“I’m on social security,” said Jim dolefully.
This house is in good taste!” said Hansel and Gretel gingerly.
“Do you call this a musical?” asked Les miserably.
“I have had too many children,” said Mary overbearingly.
“I can do an excellent impression of Sinatra,” he said, being perfectly frank.
“I love hot dogs,” he said with relish.
Rod sure is a spoiled little child,” she said sparely.
Purchasing new tires made me aware of inflationary pressures.
The garden club visited the nursery and found themselves in a hosta environment.
An octopus exchanged his old tentacles for new ones. It was ‘squid pro quo’.
And now, the grand finale . . .
Surfing the English channel: Upon discovering that Miles Black, the famous phrenologist from Yorkshire was going to take up yodeling to lonely goats in Bali, James White decided to balance four planks of wood on a beer keg and call it an abstract work of art in the style of a famous 14th century architect . . . just going to prove that people will read any old garbage if they think there will be a first-rate pun at the end of it.
Just like defective fireworks, these pyrotechnic puns sparkled, then fizzled out.
May the fourth be with you . . .
Jim (Short Fuse) Bishop finally met his match and retired June 30 as public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Celebrate your freedom from this petulant pundit’s punneling at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: She sowed seeds of love in children’s garden of learning
“You, who are on the road must have a code that you can live by.
And so become yourself because the past is just a good bye.
Teach your children well . . .”
- Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (1970)
VIRGINIA BEACH – What times we live in. I’m sitting at water’s edge of the outdoor pool at our favorite vacation spot – the 37th Street Courtyard by Marriott, which we discovered several years ago when another beachfront motel was full and we needed to find alternate lodging.
We’re glad we did. Not only is this place up at the north end of the Virginia Beach resort strip, but it’s more removed from the main flow of traffic, tourists (that’s other people), noise and other irritants that keep one from having a perfect getaway.
If we weren’t here at this moment, I would be attending my final meeting of the Crisis Management Planning Team (CMPT), yet another in the myriad of acronyms that my work place thrives on. Instead, we are spending three glorious days celebrating Anna’ completion of 29 years of teaching in the public school system, most of that in Rockingham County – at the former Keezletown Elementary School, then Peak View Elementary and winding up in kindergarten at the new Cub Run Elementary next to Montevideo Intermediate.
I ask the good frau how it feels to be finished, to having bid farewell to her last group of children on Thursday, June 9, and knowing she wouldn’t be gearing up for another year by the second week of August.
Without a pause, she pumps her arm skyward and says, “Yes, it feels great! I can slow down a bit and even take some time for myself instead of immediately using my brief time off to clean the house and whatever else fills the few short weeks I have before I start preparing for another year in the trenches.”
Anna is definitely handling this retirement business differently than I am. She is making the transition to this new life stage with the same grace and aplomb as she handled her demanding years of teaching, each year more challenging and stressful than the previous one.
Unbeknownst to Anna, I was invited to attend the final all-school assembly at Cub Run on Anna’s last day.
I walked into the noisy gymnasium packed with children, faculty and some parents and spotted Anna sporting a tiara – would YOU like to be queen for a day? I asked her – a corsage and several necklaces which were gifts from students.
Her principal Kenny Boyers offered glowing words of affirmation on Anna’s “patient and gentle, yet firm” ways of relating to her pupils. The entire assembly gave her a standing ovation, something Anna said she’d never before received, feeling overwhelmed but grateful for this special recognition.
The last day of school was “rough,” Anna said, as she hugged each of her 20 students good-bye and realized that never again will she be so attached to a group of children. Children cried, colleagues cried, and Anna cried. One child held her picture all day and wanted her teacher to move in with her. Leaving Cub Run was, in a word, “bittersweet” for Mrs. Bishop.
The next day, June 10, Anna was feted by her kindergarten team and received more accolades and gifts. One colleague noted, “You have touched and made a difference in the lives of more than 800 young people.”
Meanwhile, back at the beach, the weather forecast called for thunderstorms for the next day, and we prepared ourselves, emotionally and otherwise, with alternate plans. Instead, the sun rose brilliantly over the eastern horizon and thin afternoon clouds kept the temperature near ideal for beach and poolside lounging, swimming and postponed book reading. Somebody up there likes us, I thought repeatedly.
The next morning, we reluctantly check out of our room, and other than heavy, stalled traffic causing some delay in the Richmond area, we arrived home safely, grateful for the brief respite and feeling better equipped for whatever lies ahead.
For me, that includes less than two weeks until joining Anna in being gainfully unemployed, adjusting to a completely different schedule and, I fear, getting underfoot at home. I fully expect my veteran teacher-spouse to apply some of her classroom techniques to keeping her ornery husband in line.
I wonder how long before she puts me in “time out.”
Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Contact him at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: Parental Guidance Suggested
“Oh, my pa-pa, so funny, so adorable
Always the clown so funny in his way.
Oh, my pa-pa, to me he was so wonderful
Deep in my heart I miss him so today.”
- Eddie Fisher (1953)
Among my favorite Warner Brothers’ vintage cartoons is “A Bear for Punishment,” a Chuck Jones classic featuring a bumbling trio of bears – Momma, Poppa and Junior. Junior towers over his parents, yet still wears a diaper and is a few cards shy of a full deck.
In this animated short from 1951, Maw and Junior attempt to honor Paw on his special day. Junior serves him breakfast in bed and spills it all over him, tries to shave “good old Pa” with a broken straight edge razor and fills his pipe with, duh, d-y-n-a-m-i-t-e, “tobacco.” These episodes segue into a hilarious song and dance routine to “I’m Just Wild About Harry.”
Through it all, Father Bear protests, “But I don’t like Father’s Day! I HATE Father’s Day!” his temper and blood pressure rising with each well-meaning attempt of Junior Bear to do something nice for Paw that only backfires. As with many Looney Tunes/Merrie Melodies, beneath the slapstick humor lies a subtle truth – whatever befalls us as mothers, fathers and offspring, we are family, and we really do need each other.
The elusive question in this complex human puzzle remains: At what developmental stage do I truly deserve the title of father? Just about any male can father a child. There’s no exam to pass in order to become one, but be assured that tons of tests are sure to follow.
It’s an awesome responsibility to be a father. I know I botched this role and responsibility many times over the years that daughters Jenny and Sara were under our roof. I’m still learning what it all entails long after our daughters have left the nest, married and escorted us into the grandparenting stage of life – something we thought old people did.
Parenting is not an exact science. You can try doing everything by the book, drawing from biblical principles and examples as well as guidelines imparted by excellent parenting manuals in seeking to train up a child in the way he should go. But, there’s no warranty, no money back guarantee that your children will turn out just the way you dreamed and planned, accepting your ethics and values. I believe the hardest thing for any parent is not harboring guilt and feelings of failure if indeed a child adopts a drastically conflicting lifestyle.
Certainly my own father, the late J. Vernon Bishop of Doylestown, Pa., provided a role model that I tried to emulate in honing my own parenting skills. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about both Mom and Dad Bishop. I stopped by their grave site at the Blooming Glen (PA) Mennonite Church on the last visit to my home community, had a little conversation with them and got a renewed sense that they’re still happy together while keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the congregation and on the offspring they raised and nurtured in such remarkable, loving ways.
I definitely experienced love for all the years that I was privileged to know my own earthly father, which in turn provided a glimpse into what it means to know and to experience the love of God, which in many ways far surpasses human understanding.
Much of what I know of my Heavenly Parent and his attributes arises from the love, support and guidance I received at the feet of my own father. I don’t have a neat answer for those who’ve never experienced a good relationship with their own father. Or, maybe they never knew their father, which in turn has to affect their perception of God.
Dad Bishop left this granite planet in late February, 1998, too soon – at age 76. I realize often that’s just 10 years older than I am now. I don’t obsess or agonize over this fact, but it helps remind me of my own mortality, the transient nature of life and of the need not to fret unduly over how brief a span we mortals have to live, move, have our being and, hopefully, leave an imprint for loved ones and others to follow.
This Fathers’ Day, I salute fathers everywhere – those married with children and grandchildren and those Dads who have lost their spouse or are separated or divorced yet remain committed to being the most loving, nurturing and supportive parent humanly possible.
Is there any nobler calling?
Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: Counting in my sleep is sheep-inducing (That’s baaaaaad)!
“And the mem’ries sweet
Of the days repeat
In our dreams they creep
While we sleep, sleep, sleep.”
- Little Willie John (1960)
Last night, I promptly dropped off to sleep and dreamt that I ate a giant marshmallow, and upon awakening this morning, my pillow was gone.
You took that lying down, like a bedridden shoplifter, didn’t you?
No, this is not another pun-chant attempt at pundemoanium, but rather a feeble acknowledgment that I was too lazy to get up in the middle of the night, turn on the computer in our bedroom and play back, as best I could, the gist of a column idea that swirled in my subconscious.
The next morning, all I could remember is that a fairly decent essay was germinating in the midst of my sawing wood, but once awake, I couldn’t cut it. So, in effect, I’m starting over, taking on the somnolent subject of slumber (and no more annoying alliteration, I promise!).
So, what remains in my foggy mind is a recognition of how fortunate I am, at my ancient age, to most nights hit the sack – around the same time, between 10:15 and 10:30 p.m. – fall asleep almost immediately (and soon start snoring, my long-suffering spouse adamantly insists) until the grating buzz of the radio alarm comes on at 5:30 a.m., disrupting my recurring dream of a seven-day weekend.
I remember coming up with this line in an essay for a college creative writing course: “I used to think that if a person couldn’t sleep at night, he must not be living an upright life. If that’s the case, I must really be a saint.” My instructor wrote in the margin: “Good sleight of hand.” I didn’t even know at the time what I’d done, but it felt affirming.
On Friday nights, I don’t set my alarm for Saturday morning, the only day of the week that I don’t have to get up early, but invariably, I awaken anyway around the same ungodly hour, lay there fussing that it happened again and soon realize that I might as well get up because the odds of falling asleep again are as good as my winning the Powerball jackpot.
Paradoxically, those times that it took a long time to fall sleep, then find myself wide awake in the middle of the night or have a generally restless night usually occur when I’ve felt most at peace with myself and the world in general.
Of course, now at MY age, there’s got to be something wrong if I don’t get up at least once during the night to make sure the, er, bathroom fixtures are working properly. The nightlight guides me safely to my destination and back. By the time I’ve reassumed a horizontal position, hairy feline Avery has pounced on the bed and proceeds to purr loudly in my ear.
Some time back, I made a wonderful discovery that has provided a sleep aid on those occasions when I’m lying awake in the early morning hours. “Zoomer Radio,” a commercial station at 740 on the AM dial comes booming in at night from Toronto, Ont. From midnight to 6 a.m., the station cranks out one great song after another, mostly from the 50’s and 60’s, on the “All Night Jukebox” with few commercial interruptions. Next thing I know, the Everly Brothers, Rick Nelson or the Platters are beginning to fade as I slowly reenter slumberland .
The bottom line: I need my sleep. It may not be eight straight hours of uninterrupted snoozing night after night, but the “early to bed, early to rise” axiom works for me and when it does, my work patterns and productivity the next day do too.
The question arises as retirement looms on the horizon: Will this pattern I’ve held to for so long end in retirement and I become like so many people I know who get awake at 3:30 a.m. and that’s it for the night, then an afternoon nap is needed to compensate?
Let me sleep on that and get back to you.
Jim (Rip Van Winkle) Bishop never sleeps on the job as public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. Prod him at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: A Ford in my past drives recollections in the present
OK, gang, let’s sing along with Jim (those of you old enough to remember this heavy hit from – man alive – 1955):
“You loaded sixteen tons, whattaya get?”
Everyone – “Another year older and deeper in debt. St. Peter don’t ya call me ‘cause I can’t go . . ”
And pray thee, why not?
Because “I owe my soul . . . (dramatic pause) . . . to the company store.”
The coal miner’s lament that Merle Travis wrote in 1946, based on his own family’s experience in the mines of Muhlenberg County, Ky., spent 10 weeks on the country charts and eight weeks on the pop charts and made singer Ernest Jennings (“Tennessee Ernie”) Ford a crossover recording artist with what became his “signature song.”
“Sixteen Tons” became Capitol Records’ first number one single of the rock era, according to Fred Bronson in his “Billboard Book of Number One Hits” (Billboard Publications, 1985).
According to Bronson, Ernie was snapping his fingers to set the tempo while rehearsing the song in the recording studio. The producer, Lee Gillette, was in the control booth and told Ford to leave the snapping in when he recorded the song. That “special effect” and the unique, clarinet-driven “hook” pop arrangement by Ford’s musical director, Jack Fascinato, helped capture the distinctive sound that enthralled listeners and propelled record sales.
I played the song frequently on my weekly fifties music radio show, “Friday Night Jukebox,” during its 11-year run on WEMC-FM, struck by the simplicity of the arrangement with minimal instrumentation, but both the words and the melody stick in my head like epoxy, returning from my subconscious while snarled in heavy traffic or daydreaming in church.
My senior year of college, I wrote and performed a ballad about the tedious nature of working in a car wash in my hometown, using the “Sixteen Tons” tune. Unfortunately, word of this creative saga – so I thought – got back to the owner, and I apologized for my social gaffe; I was the one who was all wet.
The Bristol, Tenn., native had numerous songs in the top ten on the country charts in the early to mid-1950s; his only other “crossover” hits were a duet with Kay Starr, “I’ll Never Be Free,” that went to No. 3 in the summer of 1950, and his version of “The Ballad of Davy Crockett” (No. 4 on the country charts and No. 5 on the pop charts in 1955).
Tennessee Ernie Ford went on to even bigger success as a host of his own prime-time variety program, “The Ford Show,” on NBC television from 1956 to 1961. He always ended the show with a hymn, which made producers and the sponsor nervous at first, but it became the most popular segment of the program.
Ernie went on to record numerous albums of hymns and gospel selections. His album “Great Gospel Songs” won a Grammy Award® in 1964.
Over the years, Ernie was awarded three stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, for radio, records and television. He was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1984 and was inducted in the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1990.
Publicly, Ernie appeared to have it all together, career-wise and otherwise. But, even at the top of his game, he couldn’t resist tempting the spirits, as it were. Alcohol, and specifically a fondness for a particular brand of whiskey, led to his physical deterioration (Wikipedia) and eventually, liver ailments claimed his life. He died Oct. 17, 1991, in Reston, Va., exactly 36 years after “Sixteen Tons” was released.
Ernie received posthumous recognition for his gospel music contributions when the Gospel Music Association added him to its Gospel Music Hall of Fame in 1994.
I’d never endure as a miner; they’re a special breed with an extraordinary calling to a risky business, but I will continue to labor in the musical gold mine, pausing to salute those inimitable, pioneering artists like the late Tennessee Ernie Ford who gave us songs like “Sixteen Tons” that help kindle special memories of yesteryear.
Ernie found that gold mine, but he never gave us the shaft.
Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: Memories, pressed between the pages of our lives
On this Memorial Day weekend, I ask openly, why are memories so important to us earthlings?
Maybe that’s not the proper way to phrase the question. Some people may go out of their way to suppress certain memories. For others, their minds are playing nasty tricks on them as victims of Alzheimer’s disease.
I need memories – we all do, I believe – not to push us back into living in the past, which is all too easy to do, but to help nourish and uphold us as we deal with the numerous challenges and hassles that occupy our lives in the present moment and in facing the future unknown.
Most of my recurring memories focus on family. When a loved one departs this life, such as my mom and dad, I reflect often on the guidance, values and unbridled love they gave us siblings and treasure that legacy.
The 1930’s-era Crosley floor model radio (that still works) that once occupied space in the living room of my paternal grandparents, Walter S. and Priscilla Bishop, now stands like an electronic sentry in our living room. I’ll occasionally turn it on, wait for the giant vacuum tubes to warm up and tune in a Philadelphia AM radio station that comes booming in at night. It reminds me of “Nana” – Grandpa Bishop died in 1943, two years before my birth – and especially the many hour in my childhood spent seated in a chair in her third floor apartment, listening intently to radio serials on that mammoth super heterodyne.
Back in my home community earlier this year for the sixth annual Bishop cousins ScrappleFest, I spent about an hour with cousins Jon and Don Smith in the expansive graveyard at the Doylestown Mennonite Church. Mental images repeatedly surfaced from the decade that our family lived next door to the church (1952-62) and the many hours we siblings rode bikes on the narrow macadam paths, stopping to read names and epitaphs on weathered tombstones.
It’s amazing how an event, or even someone’s offhand comment, can trigger a song in my melody-clogged mind. Wife Anna remarked how great it was for the sun to reappear, however briefly, after nearly a week of clouds and nonstop downpours and from nowhere came the words to a song:
“Jesus wants me for a sunbeam, to shine for him each day,
In every way try to please him, at home, at school at play . . .”
I couldn’t believe it; this tune from childhood Sunday school days had vanished for decades, and suddenly I was again bellering the words and melody. Without a pause, the chorus burst forth as well:
“A sunbeam, a sunbeam, Jesus wants me for a sunbeam,
A sunbeam, a sunbeam, I’ll be a sunbeam for him.”
It works the other way too. A song from my teenage years suddenly invades my cerebral cortex, i.e., “Decided (By the Angels)” by Ronnie Dawson from 1960 played on radio station KQV, Pittsburgh, and I recollect scenes from that memorable summer on staff at Laurelville Mennonite Church Center in Westmoreland County, Pa.
“Sea Cruise,” a 1959 swamp rock ditty from Frankie Ford, immediately conjures up listening by the hour to WIBG radio 99, Philadelphia, on my Silvertone six-transistor radio. On one occasion, this rockin’ ditty was blasting over the public address system while I cleaned the sanctuary of the Doylestown Mennonite Church and the bishop, Joe Gross, appeared unexpectedly. My dad saw to it that that episode would not repeat itself.
Or play “Maybe You’ll Be There” by Billy & the Essentials, one of my favorite oldies from 1962 and I visualize cruising the roads of Bucks County, Pa., with my buddies with freshly-minted driver’s license in hand. It would be the last relatively carefree period of life before entering our senior year of high school and needing to start thinking about what we might eventually want to do with our bucolic existence.
More serious music, such as hearing a work from my favorite classical composer, Pyotr Ilich Tchaikovsky, stirs up memories – not all fond –of weekly piano lessons with Mr. Partsch, or the hymn, “Be Still My Soul” (from Silelius’ Finlandia), conjures up fond reminiscences of my late father, J. Vernon Bishop. My brother Michael Bishop led this stirring selection and soloed on several verses at his funeral in 1998.
I take many photos, and have for years, and try to keep them updated in albums with captions. Paging through an album or watching a home video from long ago isn’t often easy to view, because I’m reminded of how fast the time flies.
When we come together, for a reunion or similar group gathering, much time is given to reliving memories that help us to celebrate the good times and shared values that bind us together.
Memories, of the way we were, can stir our hearts and minds and help provide strength and resolve for the journey ahead. All aboard!
Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: Reader, beware – You, too, may soon be obsolete
I arrived home from work the other evening to hear a rather depressing voicemail message:
“This is _______ from ________. I’m afraid the problem with your riding lawn mower isn’t a broken belt. The clutch is gone, and your mower is so old that we can no longer even special order that replacement part. Let us know what you’d like to do.”
I hung up, feeling a bit like being told that either I or a family member has a life-threatening illness. It’s just an inanimate piece of machinery that has served me well and did a beautiful job of cutting our lawn for many years and, kept properly maintained, well, it ran like a Deere. But no longer.
So is anything wrong with this picture? Probably the right person could be secured who could locate the needed part(s), even if rebuilt, do the necessary repairs and get me back to Manicure City. But would it be worth it over the long haul?
I do have a small walk-behind rotary mower to use as backup but will take twice as long to mow our three-quarter acre lot. That’s fine as long as I’m able to walk on my hind legs.
Is this a bit how the dinosaurs felt as they were sinking in the LaBrea Tar Pits? This is the pits . . .
The struggle for me began with seeing vinyl records, which I started buying in the mid-1950’s and have amassed a sizable collection, being relegated to a dusty discount bin as cassette recordings came to the fore.
How many of us now have shelves of cassettes gathering dust even though the sound quality is generally excellent, they take up little space and are easily fast-forwarded and reversed in finding favorite selections? But . . . try finding a sound system today that includes a cassette player or a late-model vehicle that has a cassette player built into its audio system.
For years, I shot home video with a super 8 mm camera which, of course, became outdated. Eventually, I paid big bucks to transfer all those 50-foot reels to VHS format.
Now, apparently, VHS players are passé, even though the image quality is excellent, especially since our upgrade to a flat-screen digital television. Now, here we are with a videocassette player that works great an array of personal videos, programs recorded off TV that we want to keep and a quantity of commercial movies. But, sorry, VHS is fading fast, and now even DVD players are on the endangered species list.
I also strongly to the fact that practically any electronic appliance costs more to repair than to pitch when it breaks down and buy a new item.
Another thing that bugs me: most shirts and t-shirts sold today no longer have a breast pocket, and I always carry a pen and tuck my cell phone there too.
Then, there’s my Canon Rebel 35 mm. camera that I still use for personal photography and takes awesome images despite the doofus pressing the shutter. It’s increasingly difficult to find the particular brand and type of color film of preference, and one of these days the photo lab will tell me that they now longer process film.
“Why?” I ask aloud, almost with a sense of futility and acquiescence.
Whose is behind this sinister plot of planned obsolescence? It ain’t me, babe. If I had my druthers, we’d still have that bright yellow, rotary dial telephone on the kitchen counter that worked perfectly and never gave us problems – except for that short time span when our daughters insisted we get call-waiting.
I’m afraid where I see this train of thought heading . . . straight for the terminal. Come to think of it, not many people take the train anymore because it’s too slow in transporting people to their destinations, but think of the scenery, the chance to relax and catch one’s breath and other benefactions missed. Is that no longer important?
Slowly but deliberately, those things that have served me well or met with personal tastes are increasingly, inevitably declared “obsolete.”
I fear that I am too.
Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: Receive these baccalaureate blessings for the road
I’m neither a preacher nor a theologian, although earlier on my daughters would have declared that indeed I did preach at them regularly. And even though I’m a Bishop, I’m not ordained – disdained, maybe.
There seems to be a prevailing notion that if one has had a few things published along the way that automatically makes one a public speaker. For myself, I’m more comfortable sitting at my computer expounding on any number of subjects I know little about than standing before a group, hoping that intended words and phrases will burst forth in ways that both communicate to and motivate the audience to some wished-for response – long after the room is cleared.
Those times that I’ve spoken to groups the pre-speech period is agonizing. I can’t really enjoy the meal, however scrumptious, knowing what’s just ahead. The anxiety level especially rises when the meeting should be concluding about the time I’m being introduced.
I recall a time when I reached the podium, surveyed the fairly large audience that was giving me fidgety non-verbal signals, and I said, “Hmmmm, where shall I begin?” And from the back of the room a voice rang out, “Somewhere near the end!”
On another occasion, I was asked to reflect on writing this weekly column, where ideas comes from (I have no idea) and how I go about composing this weekly prattle. It seemed to have gone exceptionally well; I could tell just by person’s rapt facial expressions. I ended the formal part and invited questions from the group. Immediately a hand shot up in the back of the room and a dear lady shouted out, “And who are you . . .”? It was an excellent, sorely-needed, lesson in humility.
EMU’s commencement last weekend, held outdoors despite some fickle weather, was a celebratory occasion. I wasn’t asked to give any kind of public discourse at this last graduation for me to cover in my role as public information officer, and that’s fine with me. Both the baccalaureate and commencement speakers made excellent presentations.
But I thought several times over the weekend: if given the opportunity, what would I have said to the graduating class of 2011?
No question: I would focus on the importance of accepting God’s love and in turn sharing that marvelous love with others and the blessings that arise from this reciprocal experience.
A statement from the late Elizabeth Koobler-Ross, widely-known authority on death and dying, that is tacked on my office doorpost pretty much sums up what I would tell any graduation audience:
“I have never met a person whose greatest need was anything other than real, unconditional love. You can find it in a simple act of kindness toward someone who needs help. There is no mistaking love. You feel it in your heart. It is the common fiber of life, the flame that heals our soul, energizes our spirit, and supplies passion to our lives. It is our connection to God and to each other.”
“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God,” I John 4:7 (NASB). I’d try to underscore and elaborate on this declaration, then conclude by bestowing a blessing on everyone that I hope they would carry with them and experience in the days ahead:
* May you look forward to the start of the new day more than its end, and at its close, may you experience sound, restful, adequate sleep.
* May you always have a roof over your head (that doesn’t leak) and food on the table, and may you always have hot water (but stay out of it).
* May your checkbook always balance – handle that ATM card with care! – and your checks never bounce.
* May the line you’re in be shorter – and worth any wait.
* May your vehicles always pass inspection and your appliance warranties be valid.
* May your computer hard drive never crash.
* May you always win arguments with yourself.
* May the weather be pleasant on your days off.
* May that slice of bread you drop on the floor land butter-side-up.
* May your cup of human kindness always overflow.
* May you be content with what you have and thankful that you don’t already have everything you desire. If you did, what would you have to look forward to?
* May you always eschew loquacious verbosity.
* May you find meaning and purpose in the commonplace.
* May you have a serendipitous moment this very week that helps put a magical spark in life, turns dreams into reality and motivates you to share this unexpected blessing with someone else.
* May the candle of hope burn intently in your being and radiate outwardly
from there.
* While one can never be exempt from injury, insult, emotional wounds and illnesses that are part of being human, may you experience God’s presence and gentle healing touch when they strike.
* May you find fulfillment and sheer enjoyment from pursuit of a hobby or special interest.
* May peace like a river overflow your hearth and heart.
* May you stay forever young.
* I’ve exceeded my time limit and word count – please forgive me. Blessings in abundance!
Jim Bishop is public information officer at Eastern Mennonite University. He can be contacted at bishopj@emu.edu.
Jim Bishop: Letting go is hard and slow
Posted by afp on November 4, 2011 · 1 Comment
For example, I don’t like face-to-face goodbyes when someone leaves our congregation for another setting about the time that we really got to know and appreciate them, especially those persons who made significant contributions (in more ways than one).
Back when working full time, I seldom attended farewell fetes for fellow employees who left to accept a position in another workplace. I may have attributed this ploy in part to a feeling that some persons seemed to jump at any opportunity to take their leave, making this stay-put veteran wonder whatever happened to institutional loyalty.
Among the hardest things I’ve had to do in my life was letting go when my parents left this life for their heavenly reward, Dad Bishop in 1998 at age 76 – just 10 years older than I am now – and Mom in 2009 at age 88. Bidding farewell was difficult enough, but finding resolve to move on and coming to accept the physical absence of two of the most influential persons in my life for so many years seemed even harder. Even now, scarcely a day goes by that I don’t think about them at least once and wish for the opportunity to have just one more in-depth conversation with them. Some day, I will once again.
More recently, it was anguish to surrender my set of keys to workplace buildings upon my retirement. I felt like I was giving up a part of myself, no longer having the privilege of entering space that I had occupied for 40 years. I can only imagine how persons feel when the time comes to turn over their car keys and license and lose their driving privileges forever.
I experienced similar feelings upon ceasing to write my local newspaper column, “Bishop’s Mantle,” which I did every week for 21 years, or my weekly 50’s music program on WEMC radio, “Friday Night Jukebox,” after spinning platters every week for 11 years. What makes it extra hard to stop doing something that one especially receives much satisfaction and energy in doing? Maybe it’s because we fear that whatever takes its place will provide much less meaning.
Several weeks ago, at our semi-annual neighborhood yard sale, I finally let go of some commodities that likely carried more sentimental than financial value – a goodly portion of my vinyl music library that I had amassed over some 50 years. What surprised me was that I sold, at bargain basement prices, more 45 rpm discs, many of them lesser-known hits, and fewer albums by more well-known artists. And who bought them? Teenagers, not oldie nostalgia buffs like me. But it was hard to see these musical treasures go; practically every record had a story I could tell to go with the song.
How about giving up a long-cherished habit? There are good habits that need to be continually cultivated, even as one clings to certain bad habits that are seldom surrendered without a lengthy battle of wills.
Certain other accumulated items in my repertoire may also need to be examined, yet I hesitate to inquire too critically what they are because I think I know that a general housecleaning may be in order.
The writer of Ecclesiastes surely had me in mine eons ago in declaring, “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven” (3:1), including a time to let go and move on.
I’m in the season of letting go of more things, albeit too reluctantly. And as I do so and move on, the important thing is to know where I’m going and Who is going with me.
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