shortbread

short, sweet, and to-the-point — by Keith Elder

Archive for the category “Story”

“Ms. Satterfield…Valentine’s…and 52 Names for Love”

Besides being an English teacher and life-friend, Gail Satterfield was and is a dream caster and seed planter. Of course, she had to teach us the what’s and why’s and how’s of words, but she took teaching to the next level.

For one, she always had a thoughtful quote waiting for us when we came in the room. The quotes were power points long before Powerpoint–written in perfect cursive on the big green chalkboard behind her desk. The quotes were John Donne or Robert Frost or Eleanor Roosevelt or Mark Twain. They were carpe diem! before “The Dead Poets Society” and they changed the way we saw the world.

For the record, Ms. Satterfield is still at it—still planting seed and casting dreams after all these years, only now her chalkboard is Facebook.  Two to three times a week she will post some plutonium-level, keeper of a saying, and knowing long before Twitter that 140 characters is ‘a plenty, her borrowed wisdom is always short, sweet, and to-the-point.

Today’s quote?…

“The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was so important to them; there ought to be as many for love.” (Margaret Atwood)

Forget Fifty Shades of Grey—let’s go with “Fifty-Two Names for Love!” I can do that!

  1. Jean… 2. Carey Beth… 3. Mom… 4. Dad… 5. Darryl… 6. Dwayne… 7. Celeste… 8. Grandmother… 9. Grandaddy… 10. Nanny… 11. Papa… 12. Roxy (the Maltese—you’ve got to love your dog).

I’m already at #12, and I haven’t even gotten out of the house.

“Fifty-two names for love”—I could get that many without going beyond our extended families. Some quiet. Some hilarious. Some wise. Some handshakers, some huggers and cheek-kissers, some note-writers.  Some, a little goofy—but all, “names for love,” due to things said or done, and the manner in which they were said or done.

Add schoolteachers and coaches and band directors who invested their lives into mine. They taught me to conjugate a sentence, to use a sliderule, to block and tackle, to swim and dive, to shoot a lay-up, to tie a square knot, to paint with oils, and to think for myself.

There were caring friends and neighbors who kept me on the straight and narrow (such as it was). They were pastors and Sunday School teachers and devoted youth leaders who taught me about God and prayer, and where to find Habakkuk in the Old Testament.

I could get into “names for love” like, guitar, pizza, camp, songwriting, speaking, travel, fishing, golf, sports, movies, ice cream, standing on the beach or at the top of a mountain, watching the game with friends, or just having a great conversation.

I could talk about God. God is love, you know.

You get the idea–fifty-two names for love.

Now, it’s your turn.  Piece of cake.

On you mark…get set…

Hey, wait a second—add “cake” to my list.

Keith Elder

2-14-2015

 

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“Xerox… Brother Dominick…and writing your own book”

xerox-monks-miracle

I’ve had many book ideas through the years.  An insight would hit me, and I would realize immediately, “This is going to take more than a three-minute song to unfold.”  So, with a great sense of urgency, I would grab pad and pen and begin scribbling an outline. After breaking the big idea into ten or so chapters; after bouncing the idea off of whoever would listen; I would begin writing the actual manuscript, only to freeze like a deer in the headlights.

What happened?  Why have I yet to finish my first book?

Fear, I think.  I’m afraid that people won’t like what I write, and that I’ll look foolish (or more foolish).  I’m afraid that the publishers won’t catch the vision, or that people who know me will say, “Who does he think he is, writing a book?”  The people looking for something profound to quote in their book or sermon will say it’s simplistic.  “He didn’t say anything that I didn’t already know.”

Any artist who’s too worried about what others think has ceased to be an artist.  They have become a toll painter. There’s nothing fresh.  Nothing original.

The same goes for writers.  If I’m just rearranging what’s already been written, I’m not an author, I’m a scribe—like Father Dominick in the old Xerox commercials—just copying someone else’s scrolls.

The student who gets a C+ on an essay stays after class to ask his professor why.

“Why did you receive a C+?” the professor responds. He leans forward in his chair and peers over his reading spectacles.  “Because you didn’t say anything.  True, your form was exceptional, the references were interesting, but you never said anything.  Use the source material as a springboard to tell me what you think and believe and feel.  Only then will you get an A in my class—or in life for that matter.”

Gotta run.  I have a book to finish.  If I don’t write it, it won’t get written—and it matters too much not to be written.  “The Stories of Our Lives”… very cool… a must read!

Keith

4-21-14

keithelder.com

“What Inspires You?”

Shiane Hawke--X-Factor

This morning, as I sipped my standard cup of non-gourmet coffee and spent my allotted fifteen minutes scrolling down the facebook newsfeed, I stumbled across a post that inspired me.

A shy fourteen year-old from Darby, England, Shiane Hawke (pronounced Cheyenne) walked onto the “X-Factor” stage without the stereotypical superstar look—whatever that looks like.  (Note: if you are famous or popular or rich simply because you look a certain way, it doesn’t say much for you or fame or the popular intelligence and soul.)

Shiane is just Shiane—she’s bright and winsome, but she was on the newsfeed this morning because the girl can sing!  She stood alone before a live audience of thousands and a television audience of millions and blew their socks off with a spot-on (only British I know) rendition of “Mercy.”

Bottom line, I was inspired.

I watched the clip not once, not twice, but three times! I was stirred, motivated, moved—again, inspired.  It wasn’t a “spiritual” post, but somehow it was.  It made me want to get better at what I do… to be a better person… to try, try again… to take chances… to forget about my limitations and fears-due-to-perceived-limitations—and just go for it.

What inspires you?  What makes you want to do better and  be better?  What puts the life-breath back into your life?

A particular artist?… a writer of great songs or fiction?… a motivational speaker?… a visual artist?… a coach or teacher? …going to a certain  place?  …being around a certain group of people?

Maybe you are inspired by someone who has struggled against all odds and found their way to great success.  Those stories are my favorite.

Be inspired, friends.  There is inspiration at every turn.  God, inviting you to come-out, come-out from wherever you are.  There’s life and hope and love and joy–as the saying goes, “There’s gold in them thar hills!”

Assignment:  Look in the obituaries this morning.  If your name is not listed, assume this is your day.

Go for it.

And now for the clip…

http://blog.petflow.com/they-all-made-fun-of-this-girl-until-she-opened-her-mouth-wow-you-have-to-hear/

Peace and Passion

Keith

4-10-14

“The Naturals… you and me and Roy Hobbs”

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If you had to list your ten all-time favorite movies, what might they be?  The elves of your subconscious are probably already running to the stacks and bringing titles up to the checkout counter of your mind.  Given time, you might come up with dozens, but there’s a good chance the first eight or ten were first for a reason. They bump into your story.

One film that jumps out for me is, “The Natural,” a baseball story starring Robert Redford and Glenn Close.  Close has one immortal line, addressing Roy in his maternity ward bed (long story).  “I believe we have two lives,” she says, “the one we learn from, and the one we live with after that.”

It’s another scene, though, that came to mind today, It’s a dugout scene where Roy (Redford) and Pops (Wilford Brimley) have a life-altering confrontation.

Roy was “The Natural”–a phenomenal young baseball talent destined to be “the best there ever was.”  Unfortunately, as is often the case, Roy’s dream got sidetracked by life.  He reappears as a late 30-something who still has the swing and the passion, but the clock’s ticking—loudly. The Knights, are a losing major league ball club managed by Pops. To say that he was frustrated with his players is an understatement. But he was further frustrated when one of his scouts sends him a middle-aged rookie—Roy Hobbs.  Pops refuses to play Roy or even let him practice.  Roy literally and figuratively rolls his eyes as he watches the team lose again and again. Tension between the rookie and the manager finally comes to a head.

“Hobbs,…I’m sending you down—to Triple-A ball,” Pops says. “I set the rules and you haven’t been playing by them.”

“I came here to play ball,” Roy shoots back, “…not to listen to some two-bit carnie (a joke of a sports psychologist).  I won’t do it, Pops…. I can’t.  It’s taken me too long to get here.”  Roy walks away—but Pops follows.

“Hobbs! Come here!… Batting practice…tomorrow… Be there!”

“I have been,” Roy says without a smile, “…every day.”

From then on, it’s a story of Roy knocking the cover off the ball and inspiring a team on to win the pennant.

As a fifty-something who knows he’s never touched his true potential—that unique something I know I coulda/woulda/shoulda done—”The Natural” stirs my hope-er. Maybe it stirs yours too.

Fellow Baby Boomers…now hear this: you aren’t dead and you aren’t done.

“Batting practice… tomorrow…be there.”

Keith

1/11/2014

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keithelder.com

“Bonanza, the Baby Jesus, and a Cartwright Christmas”

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If you grew up watching the cowboy drama, Bonanza, and tuned in on Sunday nights to keep up with Ben Cartwright and sons, Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe; if you’ve watched the forever reruns since the final episode aired in January of 1973 (I did have to look up that detail); then you are primed to appreciate this colloquial retelling of the Luke 2 Christmas narrative.

“A Cartwright Christmas”

Me and the boys were tendin’ to our sheep one starry night.

The little lambs were snoozin’ and the fire was burning bright.

We’d had our fill of pork and beans, and drunk our coffee black.

And everybody figured it’s about time to hit the sack.

Well, there ain’t a lot to do when you are sittin’ ‘round the fire.

You pick yer teeth and clip yer nails, and play some Solitaire.

But this here night was meant for extra-ordinary things.

We knew it when we saw them shiny fellers with the wings.

Little Joe thought they were rustlers!  Paw, thought that they were fairies!

And dumb ol’ Adam thought that they were foreign dignitaries!

But bein’ smart the way I is, I figured out this scandal,

When all them fellas started singin’ songs by G.F. Handel.*

We harkened to old Harold, and the angels as they sang.

Man, you won’t believe the campfire story them old fellas brang.

They told about a coming King!  A bonafied Messiah.

And one poor angel burned his bathrobe standing by the fire.

They said that Bethlehem was where the wonder would occur,

So off we traipsed, not know just what we were looking fer.

They claimed a lowly manger was the place that he would be.

And so now you’ll understand his stable personality.

So, we were there—you be we were!  And, boy, do we remember,

That night the Lord decided he’d have Christmas in December.

The angels sang and did their thang…and gave Old God the glory.

You know, it’s really hard to Ponder-o-sa wonderful a story.

I suppose the story didn’t have to happen in the land of Judea, in the City of David. The angels didn’t have to appear to shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night.  Why, Jesus could have been born any time or place to and through anybody.  Come to think of it, I guess He still can.

Yee Haw!… and Merry Christmas!

Keith

12/16/13

* G.F. Handel composed The Messiah…including “The Halleluia Chorus”.

“A Cartwright Christmas” by Keith Elder.  © Copyright 1983.

 

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