"All men make mistakes, but married men find out about them sooner." - Red Skelton

This afternoon I picked up the new differential/rear axle. I'd put a pic here but it's in the back of the Falcon and I have no way to get it out. Normally one would ask their neighbor to help, but I live in Sun City where walkers outnumber even Buicks. Dunno exactly how I'm going to pull this off.

When I called this morning to see if it was ready I first got the answering machine (10:30 a.m.). I called back five minutes later, and I could hear the guy who answered but for some reason he couldn't hear me. After a few seconds of a back-and-forth that only one of us could hear he got pretty frustrated and cussed out whoever it was he thought was playing games with him. Thirty minutes later the lady who runs the office answered, we could both hear each other, and she told me the diff was ready. Thinking they might have trouble with their phones, and that they'd want to know about if if they did, I told her what had happened. She was not happy to hear my story, said she knew who that had been, and would be having a talk with him. This afternoon when I was there she did my paperwork, recognized my voice, and told me who it was.
Her son.
He was very apologetic!
I told him it was no big deal, I wasn't offended, and just wanted them to know in case their phones were on the fritz.
But momma wasn't happy, and we know what that means.

[Note: I think I've written about this here before but it happened again this morning and I felt like writing about it again. So if it feels like deja oink, deal with it.]

About 6 a.m. I was in the office/laundry room/sewing room looking up a couple of things related to this morning's sermon prep at Starbucks when I stopped again to look at the picture (poster version) that hangs on the wall next to my books. It's a piece by Michael Sowa titled "Kohler's Pig." (Google Sowa and look at "images." He's done some great stuff, including "Father, third from the left.")

It's one of my favorites and hung in my office when we lived in MI. Pam didn't think it belonged in our bedroom so a couple of years ago I squeezed it into the only wall space in that cramped multi-purpose room big enough to hang it. It's way over in the corner, easily missed if you're not looking for it. But this morning, for whatever reason, it caught my attention and I spent a few minutes just looking at it.

I told Pam that if I die before her she's to have that $12 poster in its cheap metal Target frame on an easel for people to see if/when they come to a memorial service. Some people have a "life verse," a particular Bible verse that's served as their motto, or guidepost, or anchor, or...
I have a life painting. As a poster.

Pigs don't know how to swim. All his pig friends told him any sensible creature within the genus sus knows better than to climb into real water. Mud, yes, but the dirt-to-water ratio should be at least 4 to 1. Kohler's pig couldn't argue with the soundness of their counsel, and all the literature backed them up. Pigs should avoid water; the outcomes could be disastrous.

But it looked like such fun! The trout he could see below the surface sure seemed to enjoy swimming, and the mallards paddling around the surface of the pond looked at least as happy as any pig in a poke. At least any pigs he'd met.

So early one morning he decided to ignore conventional wisdom and take the plunge. And it would be a plunge. No let's-see-how-this-feels trial at the water's edge, a split-toed foot placed carefully in the shallows. Nope. A flying leap into the middle of the pond. If we're going to do this we're going all the way. Total immersion (so to speak).

We don't know how it ended for Kohler's pig. Since every pig I've ever known has followed that conventional wisdom I have no idea if pigs can swim or if my office friend met a horrible death by drowning. But the smile on his face as he leaps through the air tells me that if his adventure ended badly he thoroughly enjoyed the journey.

On the other hand, maybe he spent the morning paddling around the pond, enjoying the wonderful new feeling of buoyancy and the coolness of the water on his delicate skin. I prefer to imagine that's how it went, and that when he got back to the pen he tried to tell his pig buddies how much fun it had been. Of course, they all thought he was crazy, probably making it all up, or delusional. Even if his account was the truth they certainly weren't going to take that plunge, or any other plunge. Foolishness, that's what it was.

I've heard "you're crazy" several times. Crazy for accepting that church's pastoral position, crazy for taking on that old house, crazy for tearing a 50-year old car apart to put it back together again, all without any experience to make it a sensible venture. I was well into my 40's when I taught myself to ride a motorcycle and then took some cross country solo trips.
Kohler's pig and I are buds.

And when the time comes to move from this life to the next my leap will be every bit as enthusiastic, because Someone has assured me that I can not only swim, but that the water is beyond fine.