In one of the opening points of the pastor's sermon yesterday, he highlighted that out of respect, sometimes a person's age has a relationship to the privileges that come their way. Though he didn't say as much, I had the thought is that like a senior citizen discount?
I was in my 50s when my uncle that lived in Junction died. Arriving in town much too early for his funeral, I stopped by a restaurant to have lunch. Sometimes I'm immobilized by decision making. That was one of those days. I asked the waitress what she'd recommend off of the menu? I was startled when she said: "We have several items discounted for seniors and they are all good. Why not? I decided to go with it.
To highlight his point that sometimes a person's age has a relationship to the privileges that come their way, our pastor shared a personal illustration from his parental memory bank associated with parenthood. The story involved one of his sons and his son's reluctance to yield to his parental authority. Whether he shared his son's age at the time, I don't recall. I initially interrupted his age to be around four or five, but I could be way off base. In all likelihood, his son was probably old enough and tall enough to legally ride in the front seat. Those are issues I never considered for my own kids because the risks for a youngster riding in the front seat had not yet been identified.
At any rate, he and his son were heading somewhere, and they planned to pick up another adult accompanying them to their intended destination. He shared with his son that when they arrived at their passenger's home, he would need to move to the backseat and free up his seat for the adult they were picking up.
In response, the son affirmed that he wanted to sit in the front seat. Having the patience of Job (maybe/maybe not), the father articulated again his expectation that his son move to the back seat of the van when they arrived at their friend's home. Our pastor explained to his son that it was an act of courtesy and respect to provide someone the passenger's age the privilege of sitting in the front seat.
Again, the son responded that he had looked forward to sitting in the front seat. The conversation repeated itself two or three more times before they arrived at the home of the passenger and the pastor authoritatively instructed his son to move to the back seat.
My son would have said he wanted to ride "shotgun." When we moved to Henly in 1979, as a second grader, Craig became an overnight version of a drugstore cowboy. He insisted on wearing long sleeve western shirts and blue Levi's. And yes, of course, he wore boots.
Our pastor's son reportedly was insistent that he was going to ride shotgun even though he didn't actually use that term. When the passenger got in the van, the son respectfully engaged him in conversation and asked if he knew how to drive their van? If he knew how to drive the van, the son's problems were solved. If the passenger became the driver, that would free up the front window seat on the passenger's side.
I'm certain that it was in the gentlest of ways, but the pastor made it clear that the front passenger's seat was not up for grabs. His son was staying in the back seat.
When my son Craig was about four years old, I took him shopping for clothes to wear to church on Easter Sunday. There was a children's clothing store in a strip center near our home. I wanted to buy him a suit. A salesperson came over to assist us and asked if she could help us? I explained that I was looking to purchase a suit for my son.
I'm certain that I had a startled embarrassed look on my face, when Craig responded in the salesclerk's hearing: "Dad, you know that we cannot afford to buy me a suit." I didn't know where that came from, but it was enough for me to exit stage right and spank Craig every step of the way home. Of course, I'm saying that tongue-in-cheek. Craig will tell you that my primary disciplinarian tool was time out, loss of privileges and "manipulation through guilt." I learned from the best. My mother had manipulation through guilt down to an artform.
Months later, Craig and I were sitting in the car (with the windows down) waiting for the General to complete her shopping. The car was the only General Motor's vehicle I wish I still owned. It was a two-door 1973 Oldsmobile Cutlass. A man getting out his car parked next to us, accidentally bumped the passenger's side of the car with his car door. Craig was temporarily sitting in the front passenger's seat at the time.
The man who bumped his door into our car apologized profusely. Before I could respond, Craig replied: "Oh, that's okay. This is nothing but an old trash truck anyway." I'm fairly certain he was quoting something his mother had said to me."
Those stories and more remind me of Art Linkletter's House Party. My Granny lived next door she watched it regularly. Linkletter had the unique ability to ask a second grader: "What does your mother do all day?" and elicit this response: "She does a little housework, then sits around all day reading the Racing Form."
Now that I'm now well into senior adulthood, please show me a little respect.
All My Best!
Don
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