Our son worked over 22 years for the local Chevrolet dealership and in his stall was a huge toolbox on wheels. Looked like he had every tool a person would ever need in that six and one half foot tall arsenal of tools. But, alas, whenever GM came out with a new model, there was a bulletin giving a number or description of another tool our son had to buy.

The IBM technician, back in the days before personal computers, had a neat looking black satchel he took on his service calls and to the onlooker it looked like every tool he needed was in that little black case. Of course every technician for any mechanical or electronic marvel manufactured had this same issue to face whenever a new model came on the market.

Never enough tools? Will it never end? Anyone familiar with the Bible could probably answer that naïve question by quoting Ecclesiastes 12:12b, “Of making many books [insert: “tools”] there is no end.” Every wannabe hobbyist, woodworker, you name it, always needs “another tool.”

In his book, “Cries of the Heart”, Ravi Zacharias carries his readers back to the wisdom of the great preacher, Charles Haddon Spurgeon when he wrote about “studying” God: “There is something exceedingly improving to the mind in a contemplation of divinity. It is a subject so vast, that all our tools are lost in its immensity; so deep, that our pride is drowned in its infinity.” (See Chapter One, “The Cry to Know God” in Ravi Zacharias’ book, “Cries of the Heart”.)

Man will never have enough tools this side of Glory that he can sit back and say, “I know all about God.” When people ponder, “When I get to heaven the first thing I will do is sit down with the Apostle Paul and ask …” I usually have a few opinions to offer, mainly the line would be too great with people just waiting to talk to the Apostle Paul and I have it all figured out. Once ushered into the Gate of Heaven, we will see one of God’s saints seated at a table; they will beckon us to lean over and in an instant a tiny computer chip will be inserted into our foreheads and in that micro second “we will know it all”. Besides, Paul and all the other apostles and prophets will be too busy with whatever godly things Heaven will afford for us all and God will have better work for all of us than to sit around asking questions. But this scenario I have tried to paint with words does present further thoughts for us to ponder.

Once I read a suggestion for a daily Bible meditation by using the book of Proverbs as a Daily Resource of Meditations. There are thirty-one chapters in Proverbs and regardless of the number of days in a month, 28, 30 or 31 days, begin your day by reading one chapter of Proverbs. In this simple yet profound book you will learn sufficient information that will be a bulwark to your faith. You will find where and when “wisdom” began, you will read about timeless situations and circumstances that you may have thought were unique to your life — be prepared to learn “Nothing ever occurs to God”, rather, “it all begins with God!”

Start today, regardless of the exact day of the month we’re in, begin your daily meditations with the book of Proverbs (it follows the Book of Psalms, which is quite easy to find in most Bibles – right in the middle of the Bible). Perhaps, after several months of reading Proverbs over and over again, you might turn the pages of your Bible back to the Psalms and discover the wealth of prayers and praises that godly people have used for centuries as a bulwark for their faith. You may want to spend only a few days in Psalms (and return later). Turning beyond the book of Proverbs you will find the book of Ecclesiastes which is a relatively short book containing twelve chapters. In this book you will find how King Solomon discovered the reality of life. Read this book and catch a glimpse of how the richest man in the world arrived at conclusions that convinced him there is a time for everything. This book teaches man to stand in awe of God and his sovereignty and holiness. Put simply this means God possesses perfect knowledge and has no need to learn. We are the ones who need to learn and that begins when we set apart a special time in our day to shut the cares of this world out of our minds and open our minds to learn what God knows we need. The book of Ecclesiastes closes with a unique conclusion: “Now, all has been heard; here is the conclusion of the matter: Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.”

May the Lord guide you into a richer understanding of life.

THE WORDWRIGHT

Posted by Bill Venrick at 10:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

What we wear or how we adorn ourselves is something that is strictly personal. Unless someone sponsors you, like professional car drivers, what we wear or how we appear in public is “our business”. Peer pressure can be a factor as well. Brand name apparel is something that has made inroads to the general public market whether sports shoes or clothing. A brand name or logo that is obvious and unique is the key. Years ago a little alligator (on a shirt) “said something” about the wearer; more recently the names Dockers, Levi’s, Nike represent millions in endorsements because of a little slash of a pen or a unique logo. Countless thousands of “just plain people” who will never get a dime for wearing a shoe that cost them $100 (or more) or jeans with a literal advertisement on their back side are walking billboards. They do it without any remuneration except a position in a peer group. Clothing is a mere drop in the bucket to such advertisement and marketing ploys. Just take notice of auto logo decals common people purchase to apply to their windshields or other prominent places on their vehicles. Some people apparently like to be noticed.

As a young boy I picked up on noticing apparel and for some reason, specifically the belt loops on the trousers of commercial bus drivers. Exactly when these thoughts began I cannot recall but there was a time I vividly remember being impressed by the kind of belt loops on men’s trousers. The real wide, or really long kind, that looked like a flat tunnel the belt had to be guided through to fit around the waist. Most belt loops I had on my trousers (pants as we called them as a boy) were a very narrow or thin variety that maybe required five or six at the most to guide your belt through. If you missed one or more you belt would slip up above your waist, which made you look sloppy. Those single and thin belt loops would often become loosened. Those long belt loops caught my eye -- to me, they were just neat.

What other recollections go through our minds as we boys grew up are as varied as the number of areas from which we came. Seeing how far you could spit would be pretty high on the list I am sure. How soon you grew body hair – you know, under your arms and another private place, and the lack of it would be embarrassing when you went to the public swimming pool and undressed before everyone. Undressing at the school gym could be traumatic if you were late in maturing. I remember once going into a cornfield and pulling out that hair like corn silk and poking it under my arms and exclaiming, “Look, I got hair under my arms!” How dumb and futile such an idea seems now. Body hair and all that fit my mind (and others I’m sure) as to why it even exists, came to my mind early as one of the mysteries of life. But I digress.

Is all this some kind of rite of passage from youth to manhood? A rite of passage exists in our modern society whether we prefer to admit it or not; but it seems innate in our minds and no level of literacy will let the matter slip by without some kind of mention. Our current society (I say current because it will certainly change if we live long enough to notice) dived back into civilizations and cultures of centuries past to bring up tattoos of a unique kind – literal works of art. They call it body art now; that is probably because it has advamced beyond tattoos of recent decades and those of the deepest African or Outback jungles in Australia, India or whatever country. Extending the lips by gradually inserting bigger and bigger foreign objects into the mouth until the lips look like a saucer or putting objects through the nose or the ear lobes may be the body art. Somehow the larger lip idea was skipped and jewel-like posts are put through the lip or nose in modern body art. Such adornment used to be reserved for the primitive natives from the countries just mentioned or other civilizations we read about in the National Geographic. This kind of body art was just not the same as seeing a few tattoos on the arms or chests of sailors or soldiers – this was big time change. There is a show on cable TV by the name of “Miami Ink” and the viewer is introduced to a level of tattoo art that is no less than spectacular and even photo quality art is being engraved on bodies.

Females have picked up the rite of passage from boys to become like men as well. Just as women picked up smoking, it simply became acceptable and even sociable for women to “light up”. Now you see tattoos on women in the oddest places on their bodies. Is there something that needs to be proven with such adornments?

The only thing permanent is change. An apt quote could be, “If you live long enough you will see your treasures trashed.” What was once treasured, maybe an endearment, was the appearance or dress between men and women. Today’s dress is nearly unisex but there is a hold out for what could be regarded as old-fashioned styles. The freedom to do as we please or be what we want to be is obviously behind this trend. Or perhaps these trends might be regarded as fads. But to those who are caught up or in between such trend setting times it cannot help but be another confusing adjustment in life.

What we do when we are young can often be something that will one day come back to haunt us. Once I observed a very attractive tattoo on the hand and wrist of a very well dressed lady at the library. Upon commenting about her tattoo she laughed it off excusing its existence by remarking, “When I was 18 I had no idea I would one day be a librarian.” Tattoos are rather permanent in nature, although they can be re-designed or changed, it is still a tattoo and it is simply there.

None of my comments are meant to criticize but simply state all of us need to realize our choices in life could develop issues that may cause more trouble than imaginable – so the freedom to choose or our free will is and always remains personal, so choose well.

Perhaps some assorted quotes might be useful as some concluding thoughts:

“Philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes and the choices we make are ultimately our responsibility.” Eleanor Roosevelt

"The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they are too strong to be broken." Samuel Johnson

“It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.” Samuel Johnson

THE WORDWRIGHT

Posted by Bill Venrick at 10:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

After my wife’s latest essay was published I could not help but looking back at my own life – in addition to the few “sights, smells and sounds” Jean wrote about several days ago.

Perhaps this list might get us into another trip down memory lane.

The smell of the coal stove, or the dry dull odor of the ashes I had to take out after shaking the stove. The coal bin – where you went to get chunks of coal and carry them to the house putting them in a box behind the stove. The sound of Dad opening the stove door and tossing another chunk of coal on the hot bed of coals --. I remember once that sound was interrupted by a few choice words as Dad’s fingers got between the stove door opening and the heavy piece of coal -- that really hurt!

Another hurt both my Dad and I experienced was around the old garage where we kept coal and some assortment of wood to start the fire. We were obviously intruding where yellow jackets (not bumble bees) were living and they did not like visitors. I saw Dad throw down his hat or some other quick move and then I felt a sting and next thing I knew both of us headed for the back porch. Our attempts to get in the house were impaired because Mother was holding the screen door shut tight (and laughing at the sight of us two guys running in circles around the back yard trying to flee the bees). Evidently we finally convinced Mother to let us in.

Post Office when baby chicks were shipped in – the peeping sounds of those little biddies filling the post office with that familiar exciting sound of little yellow balls of feathers making their presence known.. I know my memories from my own childhood days are there but even as an adult in Bainbridge, Ohio, where years later I preached for a short time – those sounds and odors were still there, the curious fragrance of the feed mash used for the chicks as well as the bedding. Do you remember those?

The smell of the bookstore a few days before school started. Was it just the paper, or the products like pencils, crayons, and the glue that was used to pad the paper into tablets? There was a bit of pride, at least to me, that now I was already for school. Some, my wife for one, did not enjoy school – for me, it was all excitement. We came from two entirely different backgrounds and even though I was not as good a student as my wife, I looked forward to school beginning but she would have rather stayed at home in the country. One of our friends of years past knew that when August came along, his summer was through or shot – only a few weeks and he “had to go to school”. What drudgery for him to have gone to the bookstore to get his schoolbooks.

The smell of hay and straw at the fair. Not having been a country boy, I still found a peculiar enjoyment of walking through the cow barns, or the horse stalls and inhaling that strong scent of bailed hay or the “used smell” of straw that had been mixed with horse or cow manure as bedding. Yes, even the manure of the farm animals smelled good to me. If you didn’t go to the fair, perhaps the same memories conjured up when the circus came to town. The closest we get to this today is when an Amish buggy goes through town.

Going to the “help yourself” pop box, where the refrigerated water was used to keep the pop cold and reaching into the ice-cold water you would search out the pop you wanted. Seems to me you would get your bottle opened and then pay the storekeeper. The unique sound of removing the bottle cap and hearing the fizz of the carbonated beverage is a classic memory. Besides, those cork-lined caps could be used as a badge if you wanted one; just remove the cork carefully and reach inside your shirt and refasten the cork into the metal cap as you sandwiched your shirt between the cork & the cap -- great badge!

The smell of gasoline being pumped into the family car? My brother and I would stick our necks out of the back window to sniff that smell of gasoline. Walking into a filing station or garage had its share of odors, maybe even fragrances. The service station employer airing up a tire to check for leaks, then putting the tire into a half-circle metal tank, filled with water, as he watched for bubbles to surface indicating what area to find that leak. Then he would turn the tire around to that spot and mark it with white chalk. The metal tank full of water even had an old smell. If a tire had to be patched or vulcanized, that presented another even more memorable smell of the rubber patch being vulcanized to the tire. There might be the sound of loud bell announcing a car had driven up for service outside and the service attendant would have to stop what he was doing and go pump gas or whatever the customer might need.

Everything was “full serve” at filing stations then. “Check your oil?” was a common question after the attendant started filling your gas tank. They would pop your hood open; check all your fluids, carefully looking under the hood for anything that might not be in good working order. “Your left rear time needs some air…” There was no charge for he air either. Whatever the need, the attendant was quick to tell you. Anyone over 60 misses that kind of service.

The dentist’s office. Whoa, some memories of that might not be so pleasurable. But the antiseptic smells of alcohol, mouth washes or maybe just the “clean smell” of the instruments having been steam cleaned with freshly prepared cloths or towels.

The bakery – couldn’t you just spend all day just smelling the rolls, donuts and other sweets? The fragrances emanating from the room where the ovens were, and the lingering smells of flour, yeast and spices – they were all there! Fortunately some fragrances can still be enjoyed in the visits to the larger stores that have their own bakery – or the visit to a bakery itself.

Did your grocer have a “tab”? Our grocer was a “mom & pop”, or neighborhood grocery that ran a tab for their customers. As you stood at the counter ordering your groceries, one item at a time, “Leroy, give me a box of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, better give me a box of All Bran too…” and the owner of Kiger’s Grocery would turn around, get that long wooden rod with a spring-loaded gripper and reach up on the shelves and nudge a box of Corn Flakes off and he would catch it in mid air, then reaching to another shelf to get that box of All Bran. And on throughout the entire list, each time he would write down the items you wanted. When you were done, he would tear off a carbon copy of the slip from that pad and hand it to you. When payday came, my folks would go to Kiger’s and pay the tab for the week. (Without a doubt this is one of the origins for the expression, “put it on our tab[let].”

Cleanliness was assumed in those days too. Cookies were displayed in a row of boxes with lids covering each kind, and lifting the little lids Kiger would reach in with his bare hand and pick out the cookies and put them in a brown paper bag. (Not all cookies came that way but some did.) If someone was ahead of you, you just waited your turn and visited with the other customers while their order was being filled.

This little store is also where I learned you do not steal. I remember well the time I was passing Kiger’s and slithered over by the boxes of fruit in front of his store and reached down and picked up a piece of fruit – it did not reach my mouth before I heard his voice, “Hey, Bill, I saw that!” He probably went to the box where he kept our tablet and added it to our family tab. I believe that is the last time I tried to steal fruit.

Finishing Dad’s lunch box left-overs. I would often take my Dad’s lunch to him at the factory (ride my bike the mile or so from our house to Anchor Hocking). Sometimes I would sit there and visit with Dad while he ate his lunch or I might just give it to him; when he came home that night he would put the little mason jar of cut-up mixed fruit left over (usually a banana and orange combination) in the Kelvinator – that was my treat the next day.

Were you one of the “special kids” whose Mom wrapped your lunches in Wonder Bread or Taystee Bread wrappers? I always thought those were special – my mother used Cut-Rite waxed paper and I yearned to be like those kids whose sandwiches were wrapped in recycled big-name bread wrappers!

Well, these should be sufficient to re-live a few moments from those yesteryears. But like they say, “Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be…” or is it?

THE WORDWRIGHT

Posted by Bill Venrick at 3:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

By the wife of The Wordwright, Jean Steel Venrick

We are savers of family memorabilia. [This is probably the understatement of the year. – The Wordwright.) We also seemed to be the recipients of a great deal of the stuff called “memorabilia”. Not only do we have photos of many of my ancestors – grandparents on both sides, great grandparents and great, great grandparents.

I look at these photos and wonder what they were like; was great, great grandmother Hagley a pleasant person to be around? She looked like she might have had a trace of American Indian blood in her veins. I did not do genealogy back to the Mayflower, so I’m not sure. She must have been a Bible reader because two of her daughters were named after Job’s daughters: Jemimah and Keziah (Job 42:13, 14).

My father introduced me to his grandmother Elizabeth Arledge by telling stories about her. He talked so kindly of her and once wrote a poem about her. She and her husband raised a family of eight on a little hill farm in Hocking County, Ohio. I look forward to meeting her in Heaven.

Not only do I have photos of these people but I have switches of hair from my paternal great grandmothers and my paternal grandmother too. After finding these switches it prompted me to get the same from my mother and father, Bill and mine as well as our children (and their children too). I have what I call a “hair box” which is interesting to look at from time to time. Years ago, saving hair was an “in thing” and making pictures with the hair was a specialty. A friend of ours has just such a picture (“graphic” might be a better description), which she bought at a yard sale or antique store.

Among the keepsakes we have are autograph books from Bill’s great grandfather, J. R. Keadle, who taught school in Missouri. (J. R. Keadle attended Ohio University the year they first went co-educational and he traveled by horseback from Malta, Ohio to Athens [about 23 miles] – we have to guess that was a weekly trip rather than a daily trip as such a daily trip would not have been practical.) One of those books go back to 1859.What a treasure to look at the beautiful script they wrote. Why did he go to Missouri? We know my husband’s grandfather was born in Missouri, other than that we simply do not know why he went to Missouri to teach school moving his family all the way from the area of Zanesville or Corning, Ohio.

I have my own autograph book, written in the early 1940’s. So interesting to look at names and childhood friends.

Another treasure coming from my maternal grandmother’s side is the old German Bible that came across the ocean with my great, great grandparents. I am the fifth generation to have this Bible. So interesting to read the family records in it even though I can’t read the German text. In the family records one name has been “cut out”. Wonder why and who did the cutting? One of the persons in that list lived to be 96 years old, although her daughter claimed she was 100, so someone is a bit off in their chronology.

Then there are the family recipe books, recipes my grandmother and mother used. Another interesting derivation of details in the old books, recipes that give amounts of shortening “the size of a walnut” or recipes with no temperatures given because they used wood stoves. (As I typed this for my wife, I can remember seeing my mother testing the hotness of an iron by merely wetting the tips of her fingers with saliva and quickly tapping the hot surface of the iron – not sure if the sound of the saliva turning into steam was the clue or not. Obviously the iron my mother used did not have an accurate temperature control, or else this practice went back to Mother’s use of hand irons heated on top of a wood fired cook stove.)

I have a big cardboard box with these books and booklets in it, not only my grandmother’s and mother’s, but also Bill’s favorite cousin’s collection. I have the handwriting of these persons, my grandmother having a very neat, precise style. She only went through 8th grade of school but she surely learned her penmanship well.

There’s another box that would probably make you laugh – I call it “my soap box”. These items are in a “King Edward Imperial” cigar box (a near-antique in itself). The oldest soaps are two P & G, “the white naphtha soap” as the wrapper reads (P & G standing for Proctor & Gamble, a company still in business). These were found in the basement where my husband’s cousin lived and she’s been dead since September 1991. They have never been opened. I’m sure she quit using it when she switched to an automatic washer because along with the soap was found a kettle of clothespins and a length of clothesline wrapped around a device that you unwound and temporarily fastened the rope around some kind of pegs in the backyard. (Then you would re-use the yoke-shaped device to wind up the rope once again when the laundry was dry. There were two free-turning handles on this device but one is missing on the one we have – who knows how long that other handle has been missing!)

Other soaps I have are two bars of a homemade soap my father-in-law gave me around 1990. Also have a yellowed bar of Ivory (soap) we found at Bill’s Dad’s house, slightly used. The one that really takes the cake is a well used bar of Oil of Olay. This bar really brings us laughs because my father-in-law was using it on his face when he died at age 92, thinking it would get rid of his wrinkles! It did not work.

I also have a piece of “Fels Naphtha” my mother was using up until 1991 when she died. Someone may say, “Why keep such useless stuff?” Well, just looking at those “useless things” brings back memories of those people. Perhaps I feel a bit closer to them. I do not go around moping or feeling sad because they are gone from this earth; I know I’ll see them in Heaven.

So you see, our house is filled with reminders of our family. I can take a “Family Trip” any day I choose just by getting out a box, whether it is soap, hair or photographs.

Jean Steel Venrick
The Wordwright’s wife.

Posted by Bill Venrick at 11:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)