Conversion

I love feedback. Iron Butterfly, Steppenwolf, Neil Young. Feedback is one of the best inventions of the 20th century, along with the electric guitar on which feedback is usually played.

By the nature of the word, “feedback” would seem to be something undesirable. To be sure, when some unknowing soul ventures into the “wrong” position behind the monitor in the choir loft, feedback occurs, and it ain’t pleasant.

But feedback as an art form, ah, makes me smack my lips just thinking about it. Young’s “Cinnamon Girl” or “Cowgirl in the Sand” would be good examples. To this day I cheerfully imprint on a good feedback riff. Power chords put me in an exotic mood. Rubber bands come off the top of my head.

I love Bob Seger’s “Against The Wind.” “Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.” No matter how many times I hear that song, my eyes mist up. “Searching for shelter again and again, against the wind.”

I love a good steak for breakfast. Medium, with basted eggs and rye toast. A little bit of A-1 if I’m feeling particularly expansive. I relish a good steak, especially for breakfast.

Because of my good fortune, I own two Harley-Davidson motorcycles. One of these is a highly modified “Shovelhead” with excessively loud two-into-one exhaust and a funky Tupperware container for an air cleaner cover.

The other Harley is a rather sedate machine, much newer, much quieter, much smoother. Ah, drives my anticipation gear just thinking about gliding across Wyoming on it. I love ‘em both. Each in its own way is a thrilling machine.

Speaking of machines, I also dearly love our 1968 Ford XL 500 muscle car. This one, now this one is something else.

When the driver (usually me) presses on the accelerator radically enough, this machine makes a “police car” sound and takes off like a striped ass ape. When I see a car with a badge on it that says “Passat,” I do. I pass that. No problem. Pontiac Grand Ma wants to pass me? Don’t make me laugh.

Then there’s the Ford F-600 on which we reported some weeks ago. It’s a five-ton truck with dual rear wheels, a custom-made flatbed and an adorable, personalized rough-and-ready appearance.

Don’t make the mistake of following me too closely in the ’56. Steel plate protects us. Heavy steel plate. We’re not fast, but we’re armored. I love that truck. Gives me little chills just thinking about it.

Since 1988, Laura and I have operated our own business. In some ways, we’ve suffered for it, and there are more challenges now than ever. We have to face the fact that maybe we won’t be able to do this for very much longer.

But when I open that door for business, it gives me a thrill. I look at what we’ve done with this decrepit building, and with nothing except desire and sheer dumb luck, and it gives me goose bumps.

Speaking of thrills and chills, here’s one that will go on my whole life:

Laura and I had errands to run Thursday morning, two of them in adjacent buildings. So we decided to divide and conquer.

She went one direction and I went the other. When I came out to the car a few minutes later, I saw that she had already returned, and was waiting for me.

A tingle went through me. It always does. Just like the first time I ever saw her. My heart flutters. That’s just me, that’s just the way I respond. I’m the same guy I always was.

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My friend Ramon was searching for the words to give me a compliment. “Mr. Tommy,” Ray said. “You are a changed man. Congratulations on your conversion.”

Gulp. I had to swallow my tongue. Here was Ray, my good friend Ramon, trying his best to pay me a compliment, and the first thing that comes to my mind is to say, “I am not a convert.”

He was referring of course to our journey into the Roman Catholic Church.

Ray and wife Delia were there that Easter Vigil a decade ago when we made it official, when we recited the creed.

But for once, I held my tongue. I did not shout “I am not a convert.”

A relative of mine once said, “That church has taken away your integrity.” I had to respond, to the contrary, the Church has lent me integrity.

We didn’t give up any freedom or character qualities or personality quirks by joining the Church. We had everything to gain and nothing to lose.

My standard joke is, “I’ve always been a Catholic. I just didn’t realize it until the year 2000.”

I haven’t been required to give up music with feedback, or fast cars, or good food, or a good beer buzz after work. It’s just not like that.

Ray was absolutely correct in what he was trying to say to me, and I treasure his sentiment. The fullness of our lives has expanded exponentially.

Everything is bigger, heavier, more vivid, more meaningful. I am thankful that I didn’t press the intricacies of all this on Ray – he doesn’t have it coming.

The pilgrimage hasn’t made me soft. I have not become soft for any reason. I am the same hard-headed individual as ever.

I insist. I wasn’t converted. I was enabled. The difference is important to me.

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Word of the week: Conversion. Ho hum, it’s from the Latin, conversio. It means to change from one belief or doctrine to another. Sorry, that ain’t me. I never had another belief or doctrine from which to convert.

“Conversion” means a change from a lack of faith to a religious belief. I did not ever have a lack of faith. I simply and ignorantly lacked the mechanism for the expression of my faith.

The Holy Spirit led me, us really, to the Church. The Holy Spirit did not “convert” me, he enabled me. To me, it was a process of realization, of learning – not conversion.