“The child is being engaged in a process that is already paying big dividends. He has found something that works. Why would I change anything? he might ask, and that question to him, from his perspective, seems entirely reasonable. After all, just look at the eggs in his basket!
“However, that is exactly when a wise teacher pulls away. Why? For the greater benefit of the student. Certainly a teacher could acquiesce and agree to take the child by the hand until all the eggs have been found. But a wise teacher understands that the child who runs free—without the constraint of even the wisest teacher—can now achieve greater success by himself. The child has more energy than the teacher, a greater interest in colored eggs than the teacher, and more desire to run for hours than the teacher could ever hope to muster, fueled by the possibility of the ultimate prize—a golden egg.
“You may feel the class was incomplete . . . to which I would reply, ‘Of course it was!’ When a teacher covers every aspect of the subject, it can serve to exhaust the student, dampening what might have been an enthusiastic effort to learn more. Sadly, that most often ends the likelihood of that student experiencing the purest form of learning.”
“Okay, I’ll ask,” Baker said. “What is the purest form of learning?”
“Learning’s purest form,” Jones replied, “is realized by the individual who continues a quest beyond the classroom, fueled by a passion to discern wisdom. Wisdom—genuine truth—holds the key to refining one’s thinking.
“You see, in our particular class on parenting, the most crucial achievement was the results list because those twenty-one outcomes clearly display the combined target for which your quest beyond our classroom must aim. If you will consult that list and use it to form your thinking as parents, you will produce seeds of wisdom that not only will bear fruit in the lives of your families but also will be sown into the hearts and minds of others.
“One seed, carefully tended, contains within it the power to change the world, for that single seed can yield an uncountable and ever-increasing number of seeds just as valuable.
“On the other hand,” Jones added wryly, “if you were to continue waiting for Thursday evenings to roll around in order to hear what an old man thinks about parenting, you might be wandering through that material long after your children have grown up and moved away.”
“Could you go back to the topic of correct thinking, please?” Sealy asked.
“I haven’t forgotten.” Jones looked at the road ahead to determine their location before speaking. “The way a person thinks,” he began, “is the key to everything that follows, good or bad, success or failure. A person’s thinking—the way he thinks—is the foundational structure upon which a life is built. Thinking guides decisions. Thinking—how a person thinks—determines every choice.
“Choices and decisions create action. Action is what a person does or says. Action is when a thing is done and how well or how often it’s done. Action is what a person says and to whom and with what tone of voice. Action, in this sense, covers almost everything, except blinking and breathing. Even sleeping, for most, is an action that is chosen.”
There were no comments, and Christy appeared to be wide-awake at the steering wheel, so Jones continued. “Actions, without exception, lead to results. A person’s actions lead to good results, bad results, and no results. And don’t forget that ‘nothing’ is an actual result. The thinking that chooses nothing as an action leads to a result of . . . say it with me . . .”
“Nothing!” they all said loudly, and Jones marveled at the energy and enthusiasm they were maintaining even in the middle of the night.
“All right,” he continued. “Results manage to move beyond a person’s physical presence. They never disappear but pile up and drift like a cloud, forming an invisible ring around a person. Incidentally, this results ring works the same way for a company or a family or a team. The ring can be magnetic and inviting and attracting. Or the ring can act as a fence or a wall, a barrier. We have a name for that ring. It’s called a reputation.
“Some people and companies have rings around them—reputations—that attract opportunity. Others have rings around them—reputations—that repel opportunity. A single result rarely creates a reputation, whether that reputation is a good one or a bad one. Most invisible rings—reputations—are established over time by repetition.
“Interestingly, neither government regulation nor the lure of sympathetic feelings can circumvent natural law by forcing success into a life surrounded by a ring of squandered reputation. Success can be pulled but never pushed. Success can be attracted and received. It cannot be demanded or forced.
“Neither is a person able to skip part of the process. After actions that result in scandal or loss, a person may declare himself a different man and even change what he does for a time. But if his foundation has not been repaired . . . if his thinking has not been changed, the results produced by actions that have been determined by choice will inevitably show up again. A person’s thinking is what he is. There’s no getting around it.
“You might ask, ‘Well, why doesn’t that person get more chances?’ Until that person understands wisdom to a degree that his thinking is truly changed, he is not likely to be offered great opportunity.” Jones paused to say, “Now, I’m not discussing whether someone deserves another chance. I am merely explaining why it is tougher to get a third chance or a fourth and so on, okay?”
They all indicated they understood, and Jones continued. “Here’s the reason: by the time a bad reputation is in place, people who are in positions to offer this person another opportunity are well aware of the quality of thinking that made foolish choices, leading to unacceptable actions, which created the lousy results that established the bad reputation in the first place.
“Stay with me now . . . People who are in positions to offer an opportunity to someone else are usually in those positions because of their solid reputations—created by the excellent results, consistently achieved, due to productive actions that were set in motion by wise choices made possible by good thinking.
“And here is where it gets really interesting. People who are poised to provide opportunities for others obviously achieved that level of influence because of good thinking, right? Well, a crucial part of good thinking—certainly the kind of thinking you want to develop in your children—is the wise choice not to associate with a person who has taken the time to develop a bad reputation in the first place.”
Jones peered down the road. “Christy, you’ll need to make the left up here on 32. Hey, finishing on this topic, I cringe every time I hear somebody say, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’”
“Why’s that?” Baker asked.
“Oh, it’s true enough, I suppose,” Jones said with a sigh. “It’s just that sometimes, the reason a thing happens is because that person’s thinking was out of whack, and he made a stupid choice!”
Everyone laughed loudly, but Jones shushed them with a few questions of his own. “Christy? How close are you financially to getting the camera you need?”
“I have some saved,” she said. “I’m eighteen hundred dollars away, though. Not close enough.”
Baker whistled. “That’s some camera,” he said.
“The one Christy will be getting,” Jones said to him, “is the Kamado Joe of the photographic world.”
“Gotcha!” Baker said. “I totally understand. You want the best. I’ve got to come up with some way to get those BigJoes and build my catering trailer.”
“How much?” Jones asked.
“Twenty-five hundred, roughly,” he said and turned to Sealy. “We need to do something fast for you, though.” Back to Jones, Baker explained, “Sealy needs about fifteen hundred just to get started on the flower beds she contracted. We’re in a tight spot, but I’ll sell something, I guess. It just might have to be our clothes.” Nobody responded, so Baker added, “That was supposed to be a joke, but it isn’t funny to me either.”
They
were tired, and the laughter wasn’t coming as easily. “Right here, Christy,” Jones said. “This is County Road 3. Next is a left on Battles Road.”
“Where are we?” Sealy asked, with no response. “Nobody knows?” There was still no response. Trying the direct approach, Sealy asked, “Jones, do you know where we are?”
“Yes ma’am, I do,” he said, but offered no more.
“That’s good enough for me,” Sealy said, yawning. “Whoa . . . keep me awake, people. What should we talk about now? Jones?”
The old man didn’t answer but looked down the road and up at the sky. “Time is getting short,” he said.
No one was sure what he meant, and they were tired, so for the moment all was quiet in the little van. The tires hummed, and the light frame rattled. The three were silent, thoughts drifting to their families and the futures of their children. Softly, Jones said, “Battles Road, Christy. Left here.”
As Christy made the turn, Jones added, “Next turn is fairly soon. You’ll take a left on Twin Beech Road.” Still, no one spoke. Christy was driving much slower. When they turned onto Twin Beech, they saw houses close to the street. Very few lights were on in the homes, but an occasional streetlight revealed a less prosperous neighborhood than existed in much of Baldwin County, and that included the tiny apartment where Baker and Sealy currently lived.
Wow! Baker thought. I didn’t even know this neighborhood was here and this is . . . what . . . maybe fifteen minutes from where we live? I will not gripe about a nine-hundred-square-foot apartment anymore.
Baker continued to watch as they passed house after house with collapsing foundations or the soft beams of a nightlight or clock shining through cracks between boards. Holes in the walls to the outside . . . How do they heat that place? Or cool it? he wondered. Maybe they just don’t. Whew! I’m realigning my thinking right now, Baker determined to himself. Then he had another thought. I hope Sealy is seeing this. We are not cursed. We are blessed . . . we are fortunate. Okay, Baker Boy. There’s your new perspective: your family gets to live in a luxury apartment. Please, God, make sure I remember this . . .
“Right here, Christy,” Jones said softly. “Park under the big oak.”
As the van turned off the road, its weak headlights illuminated an oak with branches extending almost to the ground. Living in the area, they also recognized the sound of oyster shells crackling and popping under the tires. It wasn’t as common as it had been decades before, but there were still some old driveways and wooded lanes “paved” in shells that had been shucked and discarded.
The van creaked to a stop at about the same time Christy’s hand flew to her mouth. Sealy gasped, and Baker, straining to see around Jones, exclaimed, “What the . . .” and allowed the rest to go unsaid. Jones chuckled softly and opened his door. The others did not follow him, their eyes and imaginations focusing on a once-white board hanging crookedly from one of the oak’s branches. The yellowish headlights cast odd shadows past the board, revealing more than any of them wanted to see.
Jones was outside the van and tapped on the window, causing them all to jump. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”
“No thanks,” Christy said. “Really. I’m fine.”
Not one of them moved. But they did look at the board again. It was swinging gently in the breeze. Twin Beech Cemetery, it read. Established 1817.
Eighteen
Baker and Sealy scrambled out of the vehicle. Christy remained inside. “Go ahead,” she told them. “I’ll be right here.” It was a standoff.
After a moment’s hesitation Jones said, “Okay then. We should be back in a couple of hours.” With the duffel bag in his right hand, the onion sacks under his right arm, and the sticks under his left, the old man moved to step through the gate of a white picket fence. Reluctantly Baker and Sealy turned to follow.
“Oh no you don’t!” Christy said as she scrambled from the bus. “You are not going to leave me here.” With as much indignation as she could produce, Christy slammed the side door, mumbling, “This is crazy.” She sailed past the Larsons and, with her flip-flops clicking indignantly, marched directly to Jones. “May I have a stick, please?” she requested.
Without a word Jones handed her a stick. Christy hit the ground with it a couple of times, feeling its heft before jabbing at an oak tree and crying, “Ha!” At that, the group was trying hard not to laugh. Sealy snorted as Christy said to Jones, “I am ready. Lead on, Jones.” She brandished the stick at the group and added, “I will pop a ghost in the head with this. You people had best stay close to me.”
They were so tired they could barely see straight and were laughing so hard they could barely walk. But with flashlights, one gas lantern, an old man leading, and guarded by a woman with a stick, the four managed to get across Twin Beech Cemetery without incident.
Jones had taken them to the far end of the small graveyard. They were laughing as they gathered around the old man. More than once Christy had lunged at nothing with her stick, saying, “Ha!” She always followed that action with a stream of encouragement and commentary. “You guys are safe,” she would say. “You’re doing good. Just keep walking. Keeeep walking. Everybody’s fine. Doing real good. Almost across now, and may I say that you people are lucky to have me with you. Baker, let me know if I need to fight a zombie or something. Don’t be afraid, buddy. I have your back.”
They stopped at a break in the fence, and Jones passed a stick to Baker and Sealy. Baker had offered to carry the onion sacks or the duffel or something, but the old man had declined. Now Baker was examining a stick by the glow of the flashlight. It was stout bamboo, cured and unyielding. The women, however, were looking toward the dense wooded area beyond the cemetery.
Suddenly Christy ditched the humor. “Are we going that way?” she asked.
“Yes,” Jones said with a smile. “And it will be a worthwhile journey. Follow me,” he said as he stepped into the woods.
“Jones, wait,” Christy pleaded. Then in a louder voice, because he had not waited and was in fact moving away, she asked, “What are the sticks for?”
The old man didn’t stop but threw a “You’ll see” over his shoulder before adding, “Don’t lose it, though. For now, use it to hit the ground in front of you as you walk. That’ll make the snakes get out of your way.”
Sealy glanced at Christy, whose only reaction was a shudder. As they followed along in the dark, Christy didn’t say another word. Baker thought that was funny. She really is scared now, he decided.
It was only minutes before their tight group began to spread out a bit. Jones was setting a fast pace. There was mud, water, and thick stands of brush and needle grass. Fallen pine trees—remnants from hurricanes and tropical storms—were strewn like a vast Tinkertoy maze, blocking every turn they made. Worst of all, snakes really did appear to be a threat. Certainly water moccasins were on their minds as they made their way over and through swampy terrain like none of them had ever experienced.
There were massive, unchecked vines laced with razor-sharp thorns. They were up the trees, across bushes, and growing along the ground. Everyone was cut in several places, and Sealy had received a particularly nasty gash under her left eye. Christy’s feet were bleeding, prompting Sealy to put an arm around her waist as they navigated a patch of needle grass. Christy’s flip-flops were not holding up well.
They were all having a hard time keeping up with the old man, who seemed oblivious to their difficulties. He was becoming difficult to see. It was dark, of course, and his light was directed forward, away from the group. “Not much time,” they heard him say from up ahead. “Don’t stop.” None of them had liked this from the beginning. Now, however, they were annoyed, well on the way to becoming angry.
Christy was climbing over the trunk of a tree when Baker yelled. He had stepped into a hole and turned his ankle. Badly, she thought, if the look on his face was any indication. The hole had been covered with grass and brush and had been virtually undetectable.
She was the only one close enough to help. Sealy was ahead, Christy thought, but figured she would come back to help her husband.
Christy was already exhausted, and by the time she got Baker to his feet, she was dizzy too. Now, apparently, he would need to lean on her to get out of here. Where is Sealy? she wondered. She couldn’t see any light but her own lantern. Not Sealy’s. Not Jones’s.
Baker decided he couldn’t walk and eased himself back down. Trying hard not to cry, Christy joined Baker on the ground and burst into tears anyway. She was muddy, bleeding, and exhausted in every sense of the word.
When Baker began calling her name, Sealy converged on the sound, finally found them, and leaned, breathing hard, against a tree. At that moment, if anyone had told them they had left the cemetery only twenty-three minutes before, none of them would have believed it. “Where is Jones?” Sealy asked.
Baker shook his head. He did not have any clue as to the old man’s whereabouts and had not for a while. Less than a hundred yards in, Baker had tangled his arm in razor thorns. The deep scratches were obviously not his only wounds, merely the first, but he had not seen Jones after that. Baker was attempting to control his rising anger, but he was about to be past trying.
“Did he leave us here?” Christy cried. “I am so stupid. I never should have done this.”
“Which way is back?” Sealy asked. “I’m so turned around . . .”
Baker pointed to his right. “That way. There’s been an east wind for two days. It was at our backs when we left the cemetery.”
“Do you think Jones is lost?” Christy asked.
“No,” Baker said. “No, I don’t.”
“You are correct,” came a voice from the darkness. And when they looked, Jones was less than ten feet from them. His flashlight must have been in his pocket because the old man was very close, yet they had not seen him. There were general comments from the three, but it was not a joyful welcome. They were relieved he was there, but they weren’t certain if they were happy with him.