Fun Down the Highway

In the past, every time I’ve visited Silver Dollar City near Branson, Mo., it’s been for my own enjoyment. There are plenty of shows, rides, food and shops to keep a middle-aged guy entertained. But recently my wife, Patty, and I took our granddaughter to the theme park for her first visit. As a result, I found a whole new reason to appreciate the family-friendly attraction that is located less than an hour south of my house, amid the rolling hills and trees of the Ozarks. I never had spent time in the Grand Exposition area of the park before, but Lael, who is about to turn 3, found the place fascinating. Lael rode in the Happy Frogs, Ladybugs, Elephant March, Grand Exposition Coaster, Racing Regetta, Wings of Wonder, Royal Tea Party and even the Mighty Galleon. These are all age-appropriate rides, some of which she could enjoy by herself, some accompanied by Grandma or Papa.

Lael had no qualms about riding the American Plunge log ride with me. We also hung out at Geyser Gulch, where there are net mazes to climb through, water guns to squirt and air balls to shoot. We also found time to take a trip on the Frisco Silver Dollar Line steam train, walk across a swinging bridge and ride a carousel before Lael conked out from eight hours of nonstop fun. With the Christian values established by brothers Jack and Pete Herschend, Silver Dollar City remains a safe and enjoyable place to spend a wonderful day. Employees are routinely friendly and helpful. The whole experience reminded me of a time of innocence that our nation sorely misses. The Herschend brothers say the Silver Dollar City mission is to “create memories worth repeating.” With my family, they certainly succeeded.

Getting a Word in Edgewise

Last week I expressed my frustrations about sources that want to rewrite my articles when given an opportunity. Another problem I infrequently encounter as a journalist is the source that takes control of the interview. Again, I think insecurity is a chief factor. Most interviewees are content to let me, as the journalist, ask the questions. They know it’s my job to write the story based on the information I obtain from them. I have a list of questions prepared before each interview to guide me and conversations normally go smoothly. But once in a great while I will come across a source (often a professor or other professional “expert”) that wants to manage the interview. He has an agenda. He has been granting interviews so long he thinks he knows what I will ask so he proceeds to blather. Instead of waiting for the actual query he takes off on a rambling line of rhetoric that isn’t the information I’m seeking. He tosses in clichés every few sentences. I had one of my absolute worst experiences in a phone interview this month. I couldn’t even ask my first question before the fellow began ranting about the subject at hand. He didn’t take a breath for 15 minutes. In cases like this, I know I might as well give up trying to ask a specific question. He won’t respond with what I’m looking for anyway.

Get Me Rewrite!

I write for a couple of publications that require me to obtain approval of content from sources before publication. It’s not exactly why I went to journalism school. But I must admit such a review process does occasionally prevent some embarrassing mistakes from finding their way into print.

The overwhelming number of people I interview are fine with what I write. They may have a suggestion for a tweak or two, but they are appreciative of an opportunity to see the draft before it goes to press. While they may have worded some things differently, they realize this is my area of expertise. Once in a great while, however, along comes a critic who wants to change virtually every sentence — even their verbatim quotes I recorded on tape. They replace my proper grammar with their vernacular. They substitute incorrect usage for the Associated Press style I follow. They remove descriptive writing and insert dull prose. While I suppose a general insecurity or obsession to be in control is behind such behavior, it rarely improves the copy. One source so butchered an article recently that he took out everything remotely interesting and managed to make the article a real snoozer. I apologetically turned it in to the editor, who, unsurprisingly, said it didn’t meet the magazine’s required standards. As we deal with professionals in whatever their line of work — physicians, airline attendants, real estate agents, clergy — let’s allow them a wide berth. Although there are exceptions, give these employees some credit for knowing their business. Dealing with the public sometimes isn’t much fun.

Commemorating 75 Years

My mom and dad married 75 years ago today. The union lasted more than 65 years. My dad died almost a decade ago; my mom died last month. Ironically, my parents cautioned me against marrying young, even though at 20 I was the same age as my dad and a year older than my mom. I will celebrate 34 years with the same woman next month. So all those statistics about couples marrying young and not working out aren’t quite true. My parents actually hid their wedding from their relatives until July. Still in the grips of the Great Depression, my mom continued to live at home and worked to support her family. My dad drove back to Springfield on weekends after attending Park College in Kansas City, Mo., during the week. Rather than their regular church minister, a high school teacher who also was ordained performed the ceremony. Not until recently did my brother and I learn that my dad actually picked up the marriage license in Clinton en route one day. The discovery of the clandestine nuptials came a couple of months after the event when my mother became ill and had to visit a local hospital. My grandparents took her to the hospital and when my dad showed up he divulged the relationship had moved beyond courting.

I guess it says something about the longevity of the marriage to consider they still had a child — me — 21 years into it.

Seeding on Rocky Ground

I received a weird “seed offering” mailing the other day from the Tulsa-based St. Matthew’s Churches. I figured it stemmed from my name being sold on a ministry mailing list by one religious organization or another. But it turns out that several people who attend a Bible study with me from church received the same pitch for funds. A closer inspection shows that this is a mass mailing, addressed only to “Resident — to a Friend.” So apparently this four-page color proposal, complete with a postage-paid return envelope, is being sent to tens of thousands or maybe hundreds of thousands of homes. I don’t see how the organization will recoup its costs. The correspondence includes a funky drawing that is supposed to be Jesus, but looks more like Osama bin Laden. Addressees are instructed to kneel on this “rug of faith,” check what needs they have in a list provided (for example, “my health,” “a new car” or “a money blessing”) and return the letter. In true chain-letter tradition, recipients are warned not to keep the paper “Bible prayer rug soaked with the power of prayer,” but to pass it along to a friend within 24 hours. Of course there are testimonials from unnamed people explaining how they have been monetarily blessed for following instructions. Mrs. L.C. of Texas says she got a new car and a job. E.C.S. of North Carolina claims to have received $10,000. Sis J.B. of New York says she was healed of severe leg pains. The letter contains several written instructions of what the reader must do to make the formula work. It’s all designed to open a line of communication that will ultimately start a flow of checks to the “ministry.” The letter from an unnamed “senior bishop” promises readers this could be the best year of their life and “God is ready to help you reach your dreams and goals.” Those who respond are promised an unspecified “wonderful, free, spiritual gift” in return. No doubt an illogical plea for funds in exchange for success will follow. The gospel of Jesus Christ is not for sale. Answers to prayer come from God, not a magical mumbo jumbo uttered by a telemarketer. The local church is the place for prayer needs to be met, not via some anonymous agent in the mailbox. Christianity is a religion of self-sacrifice, compassion and sometimes suffering —not gimmick. This is a marketing scheme designed to enrich hucksters at the expense of those who can’t afford it. Surely there aren’t that many gullible people willing to send big bucks in the hope of a financial windfall. I hope.