JOURNEY INTO POWER
| : Susan Smith welcomes you to JOURNEY INTO POWER JOURNEY INTO POWER MISSION STATEMENT |
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| JULY... YIKES... LOOK OUT HAVE FUN...COOK OUT Love You, Susan |
| PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, WALK ON THE GRASS |
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| "LINELINES" COLUMN IN THE WILLIAMSPORT SUN GAZETTE PUBLISHED 6/6/10 |
"I believe that is it my job to give my clients the tools and
information they need to help them make wise choices in their
lives. It is not my job to make those choices for them. I believe
that when I help my clients to find their best path in this lifetime
then I am following my own best path."
information they need to help them make wise choices in their
lives. It is not my job to make those choices for them. I believe
that when I help my clients to find their best path in this lifetime
then I am following my own best path."
Susan A. Smith
The other day I was walking past my living room windows and looked out to see something amazing. Well, it
was amazing to me. In the yard across the street, a young man was tossing a ball to a little boy and the kid was
endeavoring with all his might to hit that darn ball. As I watched, I could see that he didn't quite have the knack.
Mostly he swung the bat and then himself around very enthusiastically. Then he'd chase the ball and throw it
back for another attempt. He was a little guy though, with lots of determination, and even as I watched he began to
hit more than he missed.
Now for the amazing part: these two were playing ball on mean old Mr. McGrane's grass. Yikes! Suddenly I was
in a time warp, instantly transported to the mid-1950s. The lawn looked exactly the same, a long, broad expanse of
green, perfectly mowed and looking gorgeous.
There we were, the kids of the neighborhood, playing ball in the street. This was easy to do. Traffic was rare to
non-existent and the folks who lived on the street always parked out back in their driveways.
Then, abruptly, play stopped. The ball had been hit hard and ended up rolling right to the middle of mean old
Mr. McGrane's yard. Boom! A door slammed. Here came Mr. McGrane himself, out the back door, down the porch
steps and directly to our ball. "I told you kids! Keep your darn junk off my lawn."
He picked up our ball and back into the bowels of his house he went. In my imagination Mr. McGrane had a
scary, windowless room down in the basement of his house. This room was full of kickballs and softballs and
baseballs and Wiffle balls - probably ping pong balls, too. And we poor neighborhood children stood helpless, our
hands out, "Please, Mr. McGrane, can we have our softball?" No, of course we couldn't.
To his credit, Mr. McGrane did have the most beautiful lawn in the neighborhood and he took very good care of
it. Every week he would be out there mowing away and he was a sight to behold. He always wore the same
clothes. His lawn-cutting outfit, I guess.
It consisted of a ratty looking, stained, old tank-type undershirt that may have once been white. He had an
engineer's cap on his head. He wore big, baggy khaki colored shorts with huge pockets.
Finally, the shoes - big black ones that came up over his ankles. They were never laced all the way up and the
tongue flapped up and down as he clomped behind the mower, back and forth, mowing down that beautiful grass.
That beautiful grass that no one but him was ever allowed to walk on.
I see all the little kids - Susie, Mimi, Jimmy, Stevie, Ray, Tommy, Richie, Bunnie, Butchie, Nancy, (and later
Bobby, Keith, Jimmy, Mark), Sharon, Trudie, Brenda, Candy, Barbie, Sid, Johnny, Debbie, Linda, Sandy, Steve,
Suzanne, Kay, Johnny - house by house, up the street and down, these are only some of the kids who could not
touch, let alone walk on Mr. McGrane's green, green grass.
Fast forward to the present and here I am walking across the street and introducing myself.
Probably sounding really silly, saying how happy I am to see someone playing on mean old Mr. McGrane's
grass. As it turns out, my neighbor is a distant relative of the original Mr. McGrane and from what I can tell distant
enough that the mean gene is long gone from his make-up. He still keeps that beautiful lawn mowed perfectly, but
now little kids are playing on it.
Softballs and Wiffle balls and play houses and the feet of children get to be all over that lawn. Some things take
more time than other things, that's all.
Good always happens, though. Good always wins. Some good just takes longer is all. It's a good thing, what's
happening now, on mean old Mr. McGrane's grass.
I'm glad I'm here to see it. I'm glad I was able to recognize it when I saw it, to tell the truth. I suspect there's a lot
of good out there. We don't even have to go looking for it.
Just open our eyes - maybe across the street, or next door, or even in our own front yard. Watch the kids
playing and please, please, please, walk on the grass.
THIS IS A TRUE STORY - THE OLD, MEMORY PART AND THE NEW STUFF AS WELL...JUST SOME OF THE
NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT SOMEONE WHO PROBABLY DOESN'T REALLY NEED
PROTECTION ANYMORE.
was amazing to me. In the yard across the street, a young man was tossing a ball to a little boy and the kid was
endeavoring with all his might to hit that darn ball. As I watched, I could see that he didn't quite have the knack.
Mostly he swung the bat and then himself around very enthusiastically. Then he'd chase the ball and throw it
back for another attempt. He was a little guy though, with lots of determination, and even as I watched he began to
hit more than he missed.
Now for the amazing part: these two were playing ball on mean old Mr. McGrane's grass. Yikes! Suddenly I was
in a time warp, instantly transported to the mid-1950s. The lawn looked exactly the same, a long, broad expanse of
green, perfectly mowed and looking gorgeous.
There we were, the kids of the neighborhood, playing ball in the street. This was easy to do. Traffic was rare to
non-existent and the folks who lived on the street always parked out back in their driveways.
Then, abruptly, play stopped. The ball had been hit hard and ended up rolling right to the middle of mean old
Mr. McGrane's yard. Boom! A door slammed. Here came Mr. McGrane himself, out the back door, down the porch
steps and directly to our ball. "I told you kids! Keep your darn junk off my lawn."
He picked up our ball and back into the bowels of his house he went. In my imagination Mr. McGrane had a
scary, windowless room down in the basement of his house. This room was full of kickballs and softballs and
baseballs and Wiffle balls - probably ping pong balls, too. And we poor neighborhood children stood helpless, our
hands out, "Please, Mr. McGrane, can we have our softball?" No, of course we couldn't.
To his credit, Mr. McGrane did have the most beautiful lawn in the neighborhood and he took very good care of
it. Every week he would be out there mowing away and he was a sight to behold. He always wore the same
clothes. His lawn-cutting outfit, I guess.
It consisted of a ratty looking, stained, old tank-type undershirt that may have once been white. He had an
engineer's cap on his head. He wore big, baggy khaki colored shorts with huge pockets.
Finally, the shoes - big black ones that came up over his ankles. They were never laced all the way up and the
tongue flapped up and down as he clomped behind the mower, back and forth, mowing down that beautiful grass.
That beautiful grass that no one but him was ever allowed to walk on.
I see all the little kids - Susie, Mimi, Jimmy, Stevie, Ray, Tommy, Richie, Bunnie, Butchie, Nancy, (and later
Bobby, Keith, Jimmy, Mark), Sharon, Trudie, Brenda, Candy, Barbie, Sid, Johnny, Debbie, Linda, Sandy, Steve,
Suzanne, Kay, Johnny - house by house, up the street and down, these are only some of the kids who could not
touch, let alone walk on Mr. McGrane's green, green grass.
Fast forward to the present and here I am walking across the street and introducing myself.
Probably sounding really silly, saying how happy I am to see someone playing on mean old Mr. McGrane's
grass. As it turns out, my neighbor is a distant relative of the original Mr. McGrane and from what I can tell distant
enough that the mean gene is long gone from his make-up. He still keeps that beautiful lawn mowed perfectly, but
now little kids are playing on it.
Softballs and Wiffle balls and play houses and the feet of children get to be all over that lawn. Some things take
more time than other things, that's all.
Good always happens, though. Good always wins. Some good just takes longer is all. It's a good thing, what's
happening now, on mean old Mr. McGrane's grass.
I'm glad I'm here to see it. I'm glad I was able to recognize it when I saw it, to tell the truth. I suspect there's a lot
of good out there. We don't even have to go looking for it.
Just open our eyes - maybe across the street, or next door, or even in our own front yard. Watch the kids
playing and please, please, please, walk on the grass.
THIS IS A TRUE STORY - THE OLD, MEMORY PART AND THE NEW STUFF AS WELL...JUST SOME OF THE
NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT SOMEONE WHO PROBABLY DOESN'T REALLY NEED
PROTECTION ANYMORE.