IMAGINATION AND REALITY
Back about 1950ish, a new fangled piece of communication technology made its way into the homes (and culture) of well-to-do families. It was called TELEVISION. The Joneses didn’t have one for a couple of reasons. First, there was a big question (and opinion) about Hollywood and all its corrupting influences being brought into living rooms where its cinematic attractions could destroy good wholesome values. And then there was the matter of $$$. For most families the expense alone made a TV completely out of the question. Both issues applied to the Jones family.
Despite the absence of modern technology in my home I had friends with the evil contraption in theirs and on occasion I got to experience this new media in their living rooms turned mini-theater. My tender eyes were opened to cattle rustling, bank robbing, fast horses and fast guns. I am so glad, even now, that the good guys were always a little faster on the draw, a bunch smarter and better looking than the outlaws. And the horses…..I can see them even now. Gene Autry rode Champion, the Cisco Kid had that beautiful paint named Diablo and of course Roy Rogers was astride Trigger. My stick horse corral had one of each. It was from The Lone Ranger I learned exactly how to get the fastest start from my stick horse by yelling “Hi Oh Silver!”
Up until now, my imagination had been nourished by the prose and pictures of comic books I occasionally came into contact with, probably via friends whose parents were careless about what they allowed in their children’s vulnerable minds. I learned about the characters and the drama from the printed page but TV made everything so real. There were bar room brawls from Dodge City to Deadwood and the knock-outs were so intriguing and entertaining. When an episode was finished, a real mix of reality and imagination began in the alley running through our neighborhood between the coal sheds and smoke houses. Kids gathered and divided themselves into good guys and bad, cowboys and Indians. The stick horses were saddled and the imagination/reality games began. Gun fights were waged mostly with homemade wooden pistols but some of the more affluent kids (probably the ones with TVs at home) had cap guns with real smoke and bang. The action was childish reality. The slug-fests were phantom blows but the knock-outs and dead bodies were real, sometimes lasting for as long as 5 seconds. As I write this, I’m having fun all over again.
Well, it was probably in one of my imaginary fist fights that my dad suggested I have a real opponent. I couldn’t pass up a chance to take my best shot on so easy and harmless a target as my dad! The sparring began. As a small child, I was probably being as aggressive as I could since it was an opportunity to have a real opponent who wouldn’t leave me in an unconscious heap. Dad was being mostly defensive to keep a little fist from striking a painful blow to his midriff but somehow his knuckles slipped through my careless defenses and he landed a direct blow. POW! Right in the ole kisser. Blood gushed, and in anguish I wailed. Dad’s surprise and dismay were greater than my shock and in that instant all imagination became reality.
Perhaps the only reason I remember this childhood episode is what happened next. Dad grabbed both me and a hankie and mopped my bloody lip. On close examination, it was determined that my injury was a long way from my heart and wouldn’t be fatal. But he knew there was more damage control needed. In his tight embrace, he made a proposition that I couldn’t pass up. “If you won’t go tell your momma, I’ll give you a nickel to go to the corner store and get a popsicle.” (By the way, a nickel in those days was big bucks.) Guess what!? The popsicle was the perfect therapy for my pain and injury and to her dying day, mom never knew how close dad came to ending my life with a single blow.
The greatest reality in all of this is; in the mix of playful fist-cuffs and unintended injury, there was a father/son love relationship woven that never frayed. While dad occasionally took a shot at the gable end of my anatomy with a switch as consequence for my frequent misbehavior, I never took another shot at dad. Yes, we had our moments as I grew and matured but never anything that raised a question about whether I was loved with the deepest and most profound of parental love. Oh, how I would love another chance at a fat lip and a five cent popsicle from the hand and heart of my dad.
In the home where I was raised, the instructions for modeling the love of our Heavenly Father were more than words on a page. They were life. There was no make-believe …no phantom motions, and no pretending. My parents lived them around the clock and around the calendar. St. Paul’s directives in Ephesians 5 & 6 on familial relationships were followed to the “tee.” “Fathers, don’t exasperate your children by coming down hard on them. Take them by the hand and lead them in the way of the Master.” (Ephesians 6:4 THE MESSAGE Eugene Peterson) It was at home that my perspective on God’s love was shaped and nurtured. It was and is personal, intimate, unfailing and enduring.
Living in His love,
Bryan Jones
