SENSITIZE 108
You really have a wonderful family
An elder step-brother can be very helpful
Every morning, Mr. Cring takes a personal moment with his friends
Things I Learned from R. B. … August 23rd, 2020
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Episode 29
While I was waiting for a member of R. B.’s family to arrive, to assist in care and making decisions, I made a practice of visiting him once a day.
It was not easy.
He had convinced himself that I had placed him in this institution, and that it was I, and I alone, who had the power to release him.
The spread of the cancer had left him weak, sallow and embittered. It was difficult to ascertain what parts of his actions were real, what parts were brought on by drug interactions, and what portions that were conjured from the horrors of the disease itself.
“I thought you’d die first,” he said to me.
It became a recurring theme.
He looked at me and then at himself, and wondered why, with all of my obesity, I was still living and he, who was slender, was on the verge of demise.
He wanted to blame God.
But mostly he wanted to blame me.
Even though he felt that I had been generous to him, he insisted that I had withheld just enough to keep him from true success and happiness. He lamented following me all over the country and spoke disparagingly of our adventures.
I started to wonder why I was putting myself through this daily bombardment of accusations. But deep in my soul, however, I knew that at this present moment, I was all R. B. had.
However, it was a little too much for the other members of my family. To their credit, many of them were able to set aside some time to visit R. B. and listen to his ramblings, but no one was willing to take on the daily duty.
About a week after we put him into the lovely hospice, it was decided by the federal government that R. B. did not qualify for this particular home, so he was moved to a less expensive one down the road.
It had less of everything.
Even less hope.
R. B. was about ready to explode with anger—when family showed up from Rhode Island. It was just his younger brother, Johnny. Johnny was quite different from R. B. Johnny was glib, filled with stories, and fancied himself to be humorous. Johnny was curious.
R. B. was glad to see him, but Johnny did little to bolster the dying man’s will to live.
He joked about death.
He joked about how cheap R. B. was.
He even joked about the fact that he had pulled the short straw with their family—which was the only reason he had made the journey.
He did it all in a spirit of jest, and R. B. seemed to laugh along. Matter of fact, the arrival of Johnny was the best thing that had happened to R. B. for several months.
I stood back at a distance and remained supportive. Johnny jumped in, took over R. B.’s finances, living quarters and car. I was a trifle uncomfortable with some of it, but then rebuked myself since it really wasn’t my business.
Everything seemed to be going along pretty well until late one night, when I got a phone call from Johnny.
Things I Learned from R. B. … August 16th, 2020
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Episode 28
It seems that driving on the wrong side of the road is illegal, even in Hendersonville, Tennessee.
Sitting at home on a quiet Sunday afternoon, I received a phone call from the local police. I was informed that R. B. was in their custody and that he had given them my phone number—and headquarters was wondering if I would meet the officers down in front of the shopping center near the middle of town.
I wanted to ask questions, but my instinct was that this would be met with resistance—especially since the lady calling would probably not know the specifics anyway.
So I drove down to the parking lot. As I cruised along, I saw R. B. sitting on a bench in front of Jersey Mike’s Subs, with a constable on either side. When he saw me, he waved and cheered. I parked, got out of my car, walked up and R. B. started blabbering out a story. When it became obvious that he was not making sense, the kind officers interrupted.
The police had been notified that a red car was driving down the wrong side of the street at about fifteen miles per hour, scattering traffic.
When they arrived on the scene, R. B. had already traveled almost a mile-and-a-half down the main thoroughfare. Yet the officers were able to corral his car and he finally came to a stop, bumping into a fire hydrant.
When they saw him and did a preliminary interview, they found that he was not malicious—nor a drug lord.
He gave them my telephone number and address, so they decided to transfer him into my care. As I gazed at him sitting on the bench, he was so thin that he looked like a marionette between the two puppeteers.
I must tell you—my first instinct was to run. I don’t know what kept me there. Maybe it was propriety. Perhaps I was afraid to object in front of the lawmen.
I agreed.
Somehow, I was able to gather him together, get him into my car, and drove the two-and-a-half miles to my house. He was so exhausted from the experience that he lay down on my upstairs couch and fell fast asleep.
This was the day I had known was coming. Barring an all-out Holy Ghost miracle, R. B. was going to get sicker and sicker.
I knew I couldn’t take him back home. He would just try to drive again—but this time, somebody might get hurt. I made a couple of phone calls to agencies and was blessed by assistance from some angels of mercy, who quickly and efficiently located a hospice for R. B., so he could be under constant care. I was astounded at the mercy extended. How wonderful to live in a country that provides such fail-safes.
When R. B. woke up, I explained that I was going to take him someplace—that he wouldn’t have to worry about cooking, cleaning up, or complaints from the family living below him.
He seemed to be fine with it and settled in. Then it was time for me to leave. It dawned on him that I was departing without him. He was so angry. He swore at me, and with weak and feeble arms, he took a swing—trying to strike me. He was unable to complete his blows, but tears streamed down his face as he gritted his teeth, feeling betrayed.
Maybe he was.
They sedated him. After fifteen minutes, I was able to leave, telling them to let R. B. know that I would return tomorrow.
I went home, realizing it was time to involve his family from Rhode Island—whether they wished to be disturbed or not.
Sensitize … June 11th, 2020
SENSITIZE 13
Every morning, Mr. Cring takes a personal moment with his audience.
Today: The words we are using today that continue to mask racism.
Click the picture below to see the video
Sit Down Comedy … May 29th, 2020
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Responsibility.
The ability to be responsible.
Sounds just a trifle old-fashioned. For after all, in this modern era, how can we determine the true height and depth of our ability? And likewise, what are we responsible for, given that our power is limited by the circumstances of the world around us?
Yet many years ago, when Darren and Karen (with rhyming names), after twelve years of marriage, suddenly found themselves on the verge of a divorce because Darren was spotted at a motel twenty miles away, with the high school choral teacher…
Well, literally the whole affair set our village ablaze with controversy, disagreement, judgments and opinions.
Karen was greatly wounded by the sexual misconduct of her assumed loving husband, but was also warned by the local minister that divorce was a “horrible sin in the eyes of God,” and that their two children could be damaged beyond repair if there wasn’t some way to bring about reclamation to their relationship.
Darren was embarrassed—almost appeared to be sorry, until three weeks after the temporary patch-up of their marriage, he was again spotted, at a different motel, with the choir lady–just humming along.
Darren and Karen decided their responsibility was to stay married.
Their further responsibility was to pretend it was working out really well.
No one would put up with such restrictions nowadays.
We’ve come up with the notion that our only responsibility is to be happy, and then, because we can’t seem to be, we permit ourselves many experiments to attempt to uncover our pleasure.
Meanwhile, responsibility has been carted away to the garage and set next to other words, which also seem to have no current relevance. Like “sinner”—that being one who gets too near sin.
Time pushes on.
Or does it march?
Perhaps slip on its greasy surroundings?
Or does time do a Rip van Winkle and just go to sleep, and wake up later, when the problem that existed is no longer considered problematic?
For we used to have a responsibility to tell the truth.
Now we have a responsibility to offer a convincing lie.
We had a responsibility to love our fellow-man. Now, all we have to do is “treat our families really good.”
We had a responsibility to feel guilty about the bigotry that existed in our country. Now we accept a cultural divide, which keeps us from thoroughly understanding one another.
We had a responsibility to be honest in our business practices.
Now we favor the old saying, “Let the buyer beware.”
Perhaps that’s what we should do at this season in our nation—have a deep-rooted discussion about our responsibility.
For certainly, threatening such a maneuver is a great way to terminate interest in this essay.
Things I Learned from R. B. (May 24th, 2020)
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Episode 16
For nearly five months, I had been squirreling some money away, trying to fund an idea I believed needed to be pursued.
It was time.
Whatever inspiration had once possessed the soul of our family—to travel across the country, working, living and making music together—had gradually dissipated down to a stream of loyalty and an irritating question.
If we weren’t doing this, what in the hell would we do?
My wife mustered the energy to be happy, but certainly had lost the desire to schedule, travel and perform.
My sons were thrilled to be brothers, enjoined with me, but knew deep in their hearts that the “call of the mild” must replace the “call of the wild.”
They needed lives of their own.
This would take money.
I knew it was foolish to announce to the family my campaign. It just might make them fearful that if they ate an extra apricot, they were destroying our future.
So I kept it private.
After five months, I had a small sum I was grateful for—but knew it was nowhere in the ballpark of fulfilling the need.
We were traveling across the panhandle of Florida, heading toward Jacksonville when I said a very simple prayer.
“Dear Lord, I’ve painted myself into a corner. Either help the paint to dry quickly or direct me clearly on how to leap out of my predicament.”
Also, it had become more difficult to acquire schedulings. It takes a lot of passion to convince somebody of what you want to do—and honestly, people were not quite as open to being convinced.
So in late August, in boiling hot Jacksonville, we succeeded in getting one booking for the week–on the Sunday night.
One opportunity to pay our way.
One mission field.
One audience.
I came to a decision before we rolled up to our engagement.
“Whatever we have at the end of tonight I will use to set us up somewhere and give my sons the chance to launch their own lives.”
Yet I was discouraged when I arrived and realized we were at a church that only had fifty people on a Sunday night—a black church, which meant we might have to wade through some resistance.
It’s not that black churches were difficult, but sometimes, because of the nature of the South and memories of segregation, the parishioners wondered why a white family was coming to a black church instead of sharing their talents with white folk.
I put those thoughts out of my mind, making sure they were busy elsewhere. Instead, I took a count of my situation.
I felt I needed three thousand dollars to settle in.
With some amazing blessings from the previous two weeks, I had managed to collect $1434 in cash.
That night, when the pastor introduced me and I stepped in front of an audience of forty-two people, the calculator in my brain boiled over with frustration.
I needed to make about thirty-five dollars a person to get my nest egg.
Now, I am not negative by any stretch of the imagination but am also not a fool. I don’t know whether I could have pulled a gun and gotten thirty-five dollars a person out of the gathering. There were several souls who might have needed me to donate to them.
But no matter.
Whatever happened, I was going to take the whole family to our next destination and do the best we could.
We would no longer be “on the road again.”
Over the years I have experienced some magical nights, yet none to compare with the warmth and tenderness exchanged in that sanctuary.
About halfway through I realized that these strangers had decided to become one with us, and we, likewise, one with them.
We laughed.
We cried.
We sang nearly every song we could play.
At the end the pastor stood and took up the offering.
I was astounded when he handed me $1,433.
Now, I will not tell you that I should ever have taken my family on the road. I also will not lie to you and say that everything I did on that journey was well-thought-out or appropriate.
But the science of our music, the Mother Nature of what apparently was a good season, and the humanity of this congregation launched us to our new beginnings.
The next morning as I drove north, I explained what I envisioned for us to do as a family.
They were relieved.
They didn’t act that way—there were some tears of regret.
But there were also some shouts of “hallelujah” over the new possibility.
To avoid a motel room, we drove all the way into Nashville, Tennessee, and in just three hours, located a new apartment.
We spent that first night sleeping on the floor of our new home.
The next four days were nothing short of miraculous.
My sons got out, secured social security numbers, found jobs and set in motion getting drivers’ licenses.
It all fell in place—mainly because I felt as if I was no longer forcing the direction. Rather, the passions of my children were driving the solution.
I hooked up a phone—landline. Two hours later it rang.
It was R. B., calling from Tacoma.
I don’t know how he knew we were coming to Nashville or how he successfully tracked down our phone number so quickly.
He did a little hemming and he did a little hawing, and somewhere in between, I got the idea that he had hatched his own plan.
He needed his own miracle.
Sensing his frustration and his desperation, I said, “Hey, buddy, why don’t you just move to Nashville? It’s where you started. It’s where we met—and it’s where they make music. How can you lose?”
Two weeks later, driving a car that should not even have been on the road, he arrived, found a small one-room apartment and settled in.
We were in the same community again, with even less in common.
Still, all in all, it was better for both of us than where we found ourselves short weeks before.
1 Thing You Need to Remember in November
Five Years Old is the Official Age Limit on Being Bratty
By age six, if still bratty, you are boring.
At fifteen, you are disgusting.
If you cling to brattiness by age twenty-five, you are openly exposed as a fraud.
At fifty, you are deemed jealous and bitter.
And if you are a seventy-year-old bratty person, everyone around you, including your family, just prays you will die.
The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly donation for this inspirational opportunity
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