In the classic movie, “Old Yeller,” a young boy is forced to shoot his dog because the animal has contracted rabies. Below are some alternate endings which the director rejected:
A. Turns out Old Yeller is faster than the boy. The dog runs away and joins the circus, disguising himself as “New Yeller.”
B. Old Yeller gets pissed and kills the boy–but absent mindedly returns home, where Dad promptly shoots him.
C. Old Yeller doesn’t have rabies. He just always hated the boy. That’s why he growls. They all have a good laugh.
D. The boy decides to shoot his dad and keep the dog.
E. Old Yeller is healed by an angel, and he and the boy regularly appear on the Christian Broadcasting Network, giving their testimony. (The dog also has the gift of prophesy.)
I had chubby legs that seemed to be made out of cotton candy, generating the gait of a circus elephant.
In one of the brief fits of verbosity that possessed his soul, Charley once shared with me that running faster and faster made him feel that his feet were leaving the ground and he was soaring into the heavens to dance with the angels.
Pretty articulate for a Midwest kid.
I decided to go out for track and field more or less because I didn’t have anything else to do. Since I could not run or jump, they asked me to try out on the shot put. I did.
I was unimpressed, so I fell back into my acquired nature of quitting. But even though I departed the team, I found myself during study hall sitting at the table with these athletes, and when the monitor left the room, Randy spoke up and gave us a juicy piece of gossip. (Randy was also a runner but never quite as fast as Charley.)
Randy explained that Charley was a “gypsy type.” Now, I do not know what the origin of that phrase was in our community, but I knew that “gypsy type” meant that Charley was–well, dangerous. The adults had other terms for Charley’s problem when they were alone and away from the children.
“Effeminate.”
“Queer.”
“Sodomite.”
Although I had no personal experience with Charley demonstrating such bizarre behavior, in 1967 just the mention of the situation caused your skin to crawl, making you want to avoid any contact with such perverted beings.
Randy knew this. In other words, it didn’t have to be true–just spoken. The gossip mill and bigotry would do the rest.
No one drew close to Charley after that.
He ate alone, he ran alone, he walked alone, he talked alone.
When he asked me why I was not sharing with him anymore, I clumsily replied, “I’ve been busy.”
One day we came to school and he was gone. No one even asked where he was or if he was coming back. Charley was soon forgotten, and the quest for other “gypsy types” was set in motion with renewed scrutiny.
It was many years later that Randy, the accuser of his running friend, came out of the closet, admitting that he was gay. (“Gypsy type” was no longer acceptable terminology.) Randy was lauded for his courage. He was embraced by his friends. Matter of fact, he was set apart as an example of someone who had endured a silent persecution and now was set free.
Mustering some boldness, I asked Randy about Charley. He said he didn’t remember much about Charley.
He paused and then added, “Oh, wasn’t Charley that good-looking kid that was really fast?”
I just smiled, and said, “Yeah. That’s him.”
I walked away from that encounter realizing that there is no such thing as a “righteous” judgment.
It’s all just crapping on people.
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The Sermon on the Mount in music and story. Click the mountain!
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Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.
Two out of three people met with each other before the vote.
Two out of three portions of the Holy Trinity are not ghostly.
Two out of three times have no charm.
Two out of three of the Musketeers actually prefer the costume.
Two out of three people in a threesome wish you weren’t there.
Two out of three blind mice insist they have contacts.
Two out of three wise men are glad they didn’t get stuck with the frankincense.
Two out of three rings in the circus are in the dark.
Two out of three wishes are blown by nerves.
Two out of three days before Easter are spent in the grave.
Two out of three words in “I love you” are glad they aren’t egotistical.
Two out of three insist they ain’t bad.
Two out of three wrong answers means you will be back next semester to retake the course.
Two out of three excuses given are recycled.
Two out of three Apollo astronauts wanted to be Gemini.
Two out of three are glad they are not a crowd.
Two out of three members of Nirvana didn’t kill themselves.
Two out of three guys hanging on crosses are guilty.
Two out of three people reading this think that the bit is funny.
Of course, I exaggerate 66.67 % of the time.
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After an appearance earlier this year in Surprise, Arizona, Janet and I were blessed to receive a “surprise” ourselves. Click on the beautiful Arizona picture above to share it with us!
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Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.
They were a singing group that visited our church on April 28th, 1964–actually, three friends of our pastor, who used to sing together back in college.
The southern gospel quartet–bass, baritone, lead, high tenor–an interesting blending of a musical circus atmosphere mingled with the sanctity and sobriety of the Gregorian chant.
I remember that night well. I had never seen our preacher so alive. He usually had a somberness which accompanied his sermons, granting him the authority to be holy.
But on that night he was moving around and singing low bass notes on the RCA Victor microphone which had been placed in the middle of the platform.
I got excited. Honestly, it was a little corny, but still had enough fun in it that I participated.
After the show everybody processed to the fellowship hall for cookies and punch. I grabbed three of my friends and we headed off to a Sunday School classroom which had an off-key Wurlitzer piano, and started pounding out some songs of our own. We didn’t sound very good but we were totally enthusiastic.
Right in the middle of an exhilarating screech, one of the church elders stuck his head in, rebuked us and said we were bad children because we weren’t joining in with the rest of the church. My friends were intimidated by the austere condemnation and left to go eat their cookies, but I stayed in the room. I played and played; I sang and sang.
That night changed me. I realized I liked music. I liked entertaining.
I regathered my three friends shortly after that evening and we began to sing everywhere–nursing homes, school talent shows, street rallies, coffee houses–and later, when my buddies paired off and got married, I kept it up.
In the process I worked with the Blackwood Brothers, the Rambos, the Happy Goodmans, the Imperials and the Oak Ridge Boys.
I became an egg. Whether I was scrambled, fried, poached or put in an omelet, I was an egg. You could use me to make a cake, a souffle, or even to hold your meatloaf together.
I was not a ham and certainly not a crab.
On April 28th, 1964, listening to the Gospel Tones, I chose to become an egg. Over the years many people have tried to get me to fit into their box, but I’m an egg.
I was built for a carton.
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Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.
Love without love is loveless–and lonely, by the way.
Hope without hope is a hopeless pile of meaningless, constantly demanding tending.
Fellowship without fellow ships is a dry dock.
God without God is unfortunately religion aplenty, minus divine results.
Family without family is a family circus, with clowns crawling out of your car.
Life without life is lifeless, still insisting on breathing.
Creativity without creative ideas is a non-creative loop to nothing.
Jesus without Jesus’ heart is an obnoxious Jewish prophet who keeps dying–when I require a chance to live.
For a brief season I entered a world where a man decided for everyone else the definition of purpose. I gently resisted the tide of opinion. I was honored for a time as a genius, later to be branded a renegade. Being young and impetuous, I fought back with toothy nails. But struggling in quicksand only hastens the demise. I was fortunate to escape. I was truly amazed that others followed–yet I was heart-broken that many suffered emotionally and spiritually–and died.
Faith is not a Bible, a college, a church–and certainly not the essence of one individual person’s opinions. Faith is the work that prevents our death, allowing for joy.
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Jonathan’s thinking–every day–in a sentence or two …
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