It’s been said that perception is reality. I think that’s true for the folks who really believe something at the time they believe it but the truth is that sometimes it isn’t.
Reality, that is.
What’s reality, some might ask? Well, for instance, if you’re swimming in the Florida Everglades, you might think you can swim faster than that alligator that just slid into the water with you, especially if you’ve got a good backstroke. But the reality is you can’t. Or maybe you can run a 12-second 100-yard dash. That’s fast for a human but not too impressive over the long haul compared with a cheetah who can travel at more than 50 miles an hour over a long distance.
Then there’s the classic — to me — example of what is reality. If you’ve got an eight-ounce glass and it’s got four ounces of sweet tea (is there any other kind?) in it, is the glass half-full or half-empty? The answer is “yes.” They’re both realities.
And in case you’re wondering, “reality TV” isn’t reality. You do know there are other people around on those programs where people take off their clothes and run around naked in the jungle looking for a bug or two to eat, don’t you? After all, who do you think is filming all that mess?
But then there’s real reality, the reality that reality can and will change over time.
One of those realities about that for me is that I can no longer swing a maul over my head to split a piece of red oak for the wood heater. My shoulders have long ago checked out for the duration and my friendly orthopedic doc said I should carefully avoid such activity. Coupled with the surrender of that part of my body for that task is the reality I am no longer able to launch a three-point shot on the local basketball court, which in the past I could do. Or toss a 90-mile per hour fastball toward home plate, which in the past I never could do. Or even a 40-mile per hour fast ball, for that matter.
Such revelations and truths come faster and more frequently as I arrive at the age where if there were a candle for each of my years, it would take a large cake to hold them all. But one day this week, I got a reminder of how perception sometimes really isn’t reality, a reminder that first poked its head into my world when I was the tender age of 17.
It was a weekday afternoon not too late on an autumn day in 1965. I was at home doing my homework or watching cartoons or bugging my mama or something equally significant when my dad came home early from his route of collecting insurance premiums.
“Come on and ride uptown with me,” he said, town being about two miles from where we lived. As I remember, I didn’t ask him why, most unusual for me. Instead, I just hopped into our ’64 four-door Ford Fairlane and he drove.
In a few moments, we pulled into a parking space on the main street of Pittsboro, parking in front of where Verlie’s restaurant is today. But in that day and age, it was a vacant lot the Ford dealership used to display new vehicles. Some two spaces or so from where we sat was parked a new ’65 burgundy Mustang with black interior, spinner wheel covers and the gear stick in the floor, the poor man’s sports car. I got out of our car and stepped up on the sidewalk to take a look at it.
“Whatta you think of that Mustang?” he asked.
“Oh man, it’s sharp,” or something like that was my response.
“It’s ours.”
The estimation of my dad’s cool factor and hipness went up a hundred-fold immediately. In my teen mind, he was no longer completely out of touch with life, even at 54 years old.
The reality is he never was.
This week at my local auto service shop someone brought in their ’65 burgundy Ford Mustang for service. Afterwards, as I stood in that parking lot and watched the car go out of sight, listening to the rumble voice of that 289 motor, I once again sensed the reality that my dad was pretty sharp after all.
Thankfully, I seldom doubted that again after that day. And the reality is, I’m glad there was time to share more life with him. If you’ve still got yours — your father, that is and even your mama — take some time to tune in and check out whatever reality you’ve got left.
The reality is I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.
Bob Wachs is a native of Chatham County and retired long-time managing editor of the Chatham News/Chatham Record, having written a weekly column for more than 30 years. During most of his time with the newspapers, he was also a bi-vocational pastor and today serves Bear Creek Baptist Church for the second time as pastor.
