by Andy Andrews
Jones nodded. “What you are experiencing right now . . . what you are doing, what you are thinking . . . It doesn’t seem normal, does it?”
“No,” Baker said. “It doesn’t.”
“Okay . . . good.” Jones narrowed his eyes as if he were coming to some great conclusion. Nodding again, he brightened. “I’m sure that’s a feeling you can get used to. And, hey, I suppose you’ll have to get used to it if you want something from life other than what you have right now. Correct?”
Baker frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s pretty simple, son,” Jones said. “Normal isn’t the goal.”
“I’m not . . .” Baker shook his head. “What?”
“Normal,” Jones said slowly, “is not what you want to be.”
Baker still didn’t understand. “I don’t want to be normal? What? I’m supposed to want to be abnormal?”
Jones chuckled. “Well, you don’t have to express it in those terms,” he said, “but that’s the idea.” Leaning back on one elbow, he stretched out his legs and said, “Look, Baker, you’ve been ‘normal’ your whole life. How’s that working out?”
The young farmer didn’t say anything, so Jones continued. “You are thirty-seven years old and—”
Baker stiffened. “Hey man, how do you know how old I am?”
“You look thirty-seven,” Jones replied. “Who cares? That’s not the point. The point is that for a lot of years, you have paid way too much attention to doing things the way everyone around you considers normal. Trying to achieve something great by doing things the normal way is like expecting to win the lottery by purchasing a single ticket and being one of millions of people who have done the same thing. It’s not likely to happen.”
Baker grunted. “Achieve something great? What are you talking about? I quit thinking I was going to do something great in the eighth or ninth grade.”
Jones spread his hands and grinned. “Of course you did. So did most everybody else. In fact, at that age it’s an incredibly normal thing to do.”
Baker cocked his head and gave the old man a sly look. “I’m sitting on the ground in the middle of a sixty-acre field with an old dude I almost shot a few minutes ago . . . That is not normal.”
Jones laughed and after hesitating briefly, Baker joined in. “Okay,” Jones said, “that’s a start.”
As quickly as he had laughed a moment before, Baker’s demeanor grew grim. “So what’s this all got to do with me?” he asked. “And you . . . Seriously, man. I don’t know you. What do you do?”
Jones looked at the younger man thoughtfully. “I guess you could say that I’m in the transportation business, son. I help folks get from where they are . . . to where they want to be.”
Baker nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. He thought the old guy looked more like a bum.
“I’m considering teaching a bit of that philosophy to a few folks around here,” Jones said. “Soon, in fact. Sort of an informal class. What do you think?”
“It would be different,” the farmer said without enthusiasm.
“You are exactly right,” Jones said and reached over to slap Baker on the knee. “Thank you for pointing that out. It would be different. Therefore, the class absolutely must convene.” Jones scrambled to his feet and pulled the younger man up with him. “I will be in touch because you need to attend,” he said and turned to walk away.
“Hang on,” Baker said. “Man, I appreciate the . . . ah . . . encouragement or whatever—you know, all the stuff you just said. But I don’t really know you, and . . . I’m just sayin.’ I’m busy. I have a lot coming down on me right now, and I don’t know about coming to some class.”
Jones walked the few steps back to the farmer and stuck out his hand. Baker took it to shake, but the old man did not let go. “Okay, Baker,” Jones said. “I totally understand.” Not relaxing his grip on the younger man’s hand, Jones also held him with his eyes. “I know you don’t want to come to a class or listen to a—what did you call me earlier?” He grinned. “Oh yeah, an ‘old fossil.’ But you are not alone. In fact, the vast majority of folks are just like you. Nobody wants to come to a class or listen to an old fossil. Why? It’s not normal.”
Jones held tightly to Baker’s hand and inched his face a little closer. Talking softly but seriously, with an intensity that crackled in the air between them, Jones said, “If you ever listen to anything anybody tells you for the rest of your life, son, you’d better hear what I’m about to say . . .
“I am about to give you the fundamental anchor in a doctrine of extraordinary achievement that has seldom been revealed. For centuries this principle has been hidden. Yet it is hidden in plain sight. Deep within the truth of this law, power and worthlessness fight an unending battle for supremacy. The principle has great power because it is easily harnessed by anyone who chooses to do so. But the principle also bears the stain of worthlessness, for it is even more easily ignored. Will you harness the principle? Or will you ignore it? Listen carefully . . .”
Jones paused, took a deep breath, and began to speak the words that would one day change Baker’s life and his legacy.
“If you are doing what everyone else is doing, you are doing something wrong. Why? Because most people are not obtaining results that are considered extraordinary.
“If your thinking is causing you to do what everyone else is doing, you are only contributing to the average. Even if you are contributing to the average at a high level, it is still . . . average.
“Do you want to be average? Do you want an average life span or an average lifestyle? Do you want an average marriage? Do you want to raise average children? Do you want an average spiritual life? Do you want average financial results? Do you want an average amount of influence for good in your community?
“No! Of course not! If you could wave a magic wand over your life, you’d create results in every part of your life that are wildly beyond the average. You would create results—you would create a life—that was extraordinary in every way.
“Therefore, in order to produce results that are wildly outside the average—to produce results that are extraordinary—you cannot afford to think like average people think. You cannot act like average people act. You cannot be what average people are . . . which is normal.”
Jones’s blue eyes gripped Baker for a few more seconds. He wanted the words he had spoken to sink deeply into the younger man’s heart and mind. The old man smiled finally and shook the hand he was already holding. Releasing, Jones cuffed Baker on the shoulder. “I will see you soon,” he said. “Yes?”
“Yes,” Baker replied.
With that, Jones turned to look around and get his bearings for the walk back to town. He waved and began to stride across the huge field, through wheat stalks reaching almost to his waist.
Baker watched him go for a moment, then turned away and began his own walk back to the truck. The farmer wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but he felt different—better—than he had only thirty minutes ago. Baker wondered if he would really ever see the crazy old fellow again.
Reaching the truck, he opened the door before it occurred to him that he could have, and probably should have, offered Jones a ride back to Fairhope. It was not too late, Baker thought, but when he turned around and scanned the field in every direction, the old man was nowhere in sight.
The young farmer frowned. Where could he have gone?
Gradually a smile began to spread across Baker’s face. Then he laughed out loud and climbed into the big F-150. He was still laughing as he turned the ignition; and when he shifted the truck into gear, Baker spoke out loud, “I don’t know how you got out of the field that fast, old man. But however it happened . . . it sure wasn’t normal.”
Six
Kelli Porter held hands with Bart, her husband, as she looked across the bay from the passenger side of their white SUV. They were slowing momentarily, the VFW hall on their right, at the only caution l
ight on Scenic Highway 98. “I’m thinking we’ll be a bit early,” Bart said. “That okay with you?”
“Fine with me,” Kelli responded without turning her head. “How long will this last tonight?”
“I’m not really sure,” Bart answered, accelerating the big vehicle to the south, away from town, along the charming two-lane highway.
Kelli’s eyes remained focused on the broad expanse of water to their right and noted the position of the sun. It was 6:40 p.m., still a good forty-five minutes away, by her reckoning, from their local version of Canada’s Northern Lights or Yellowstone’s Old Faithful. It was a daily occurrence that transfixed locals and visitors alike. Sunset on Mobile Bay had become a signature event—a dazzling moment, when the huge, flaming ball of fire fell dramatically into the water.
“The kids are outside for sure now,” Kelli murmured quietly.
Bart chuckled and squeezed his wife’s hand. “We can turn around . . .”
“Nooo,” she said, drawing out the word. Suddenly, she took a deep breath, exhaled just as quickly, and shifted a bit in the seat as if to reset her thoughts and focus. “I’m curious about this whole thing tonight. Even though it’s going to kill me to be inside when the sun sets.”
“We’ve lived here for fifteen years, Kelli. You haven’t seen enough sunsets?”
They shot each other a quick grin as Bart slowed for another light. No words were necessary. Both knew the answer to that silly question.
For families like the Porters who live along the stretch of waterfront known as the Eastern Shore, sunset is a spectacle they rarely miss. People plan daily schedules around the time when they come out of their homes in the late afternoon to drive or bicycle or walk down to the bay. Folks greet each other like old friends (whether they recognize anyone or not) and enjoy the laughter of the children who play together in packs at the water’s edge, soaking wet, splashing each other in their good clothes.
When the sun begins to approach the liquid horizon, a hush falls over the crowd. Waiting . . . waiting . . . all is silent until the very instant the object of the gathering dips its molten edge into the bay. When the sun touches the water, fifty or a hundred kids make a soft sizzling sound. Sssss . . . the sizzles dissolve into giggles, the giggles into laughter, and the laughter into a smattering of applause.
Kelli saw her future husband for the first time during their freshman year at Ohio State. He caught her eye in world history when the graduate assistant teaching the class mispronounced the phrase “for all intents and purposes.” When the young professor said “for all intensive purposes,” Bart shot a devilish grin across the aisle, and Kelli snickered out loud.
The uncontrolled laugh horrified Kelli but provided Bart the opening he had been seeking to approach the beautiful girl. Immediately after class, however, it had been Kelli who spoke first. She smiled and said, “You are bad.”
Quick on his feet, Bart returned the smile and responded, “For all intensive purposes, that is probably very true.”
By the end of the week, they were eating lunch together. At month’s end they were dating. And by Christmas Bart knew they would be married one day. Kelli took a bit longer to convince, but when graduation rolled around several years later, the wedding date had been set.
The young couple relocated several times before finally settling, to the amazement of their friends, in what the rest of the country regarded as “the Deep South.” Bart worked in an executive position as a financial analyst for a large insurance company in Nashville, Tennessee, while Kelli made use of her talent and skill as a freelance graphic artist.
On vacation after three years of marriage, they had driven down Interstate 65 all the way to Mobile, Alabama, and detoured through downtown Fairhope on their way to the beach. Enchanted by the variety of tiny shops and incredible restaurants scattered throughout the beautiful village, the couple never made it to the coast. And so it happened that during a few days of exploring, Bart and Kelli came to the conclusion that they wanted more than a visit. That very week they determined to move to Fairhope and, within six months, had actually done it.
Now a decade and a half later, Bart and Kelli were established residents. With three children under the age of twelve, Kelli had cut back considerably on her career in graphic design, but since most of the contacts, the correspondence, and even the actual work were done online, she still managed to create a significant addition to the family’s income.
Bart simply changed locations and continued his work with the insurance company—the majority of what he did was online too. They were happy with each other, financially stable, and determined to be good parents. That particular desire to raise great kids was why, at that very moment, Bart and Kelli were walking across the parking lot toward the front entrance of the Grand Hotel.
“Tell me again who this guy is,” Kelli said.
Bart took her hand and continued to walk. “Dear, I have told you everything I know. It was advertised at the bookstore. I heard, or I was told . . . well, they say he’s an expert.”
“On . . . ?” Kelli prompted.
“On? What do you mean, ‘On?’” Bart asked, now a bit confused.
“On what? What is he an expert on? Whoever ‘they’ might be . . . they said he was an expert. So? An expert on what?”
“Well . . .” Bart was suddenly unsure. “Well, parenting, I guess.”
“You guess?” Kelli’s eyebrows lifted. She dropped Bart’s hand and stopped walking. Facing him, she said, “You guess this man is an expert on parenting?”
“Kelli,” Bart responded, exasperation seeping into his voice, “the guy is teaching a parenting class. So, yes, I assume he’s an expert on parenting.”
Kelli’s first inclination was to grab the word “assume” and beat her husband over the head with it for dragging her to something he obviously knew nothing about. Instead, she nodded slowly and remained silent as they turned and entered the hotel. She was grateful to be married to a man so determined to be a great parent. This intense attention to anything regarding being a father, Kelli knew, was the result of Bart having grown up without one. His father had left the family, never to be seen again, six weeks before Bart was born.
The slow, quiet nod had the desired effect, Kelli noted to herself. Bart calmed quickly from what was about to become an argument. She had learned the slow-nod-with-silence method at a marriage class they had attended several years earlier. That class had been taught by a person, Kelli thought (but did not say aloud), who really had been an expert.
So who, she wondered as they walked toward the meeting room, is this guy?
Marriott’s Grand Hotel was aptly named. The property’s centuries-old oak trees and massive magnolias provide a backdrop for the exquisite, natural wood structure of the hotel. Fine dining, a fabulous spa, swimming pools, lakes, and a championship golf course are all part of why the Grand Hotel is a destination unto itself.
Less than five minutes down Scenic 98 from Fairhope, the Grand Hotel property is set on a prime piece of waterfront real estate known as Point Clear. Projecting westward into historic Mobile Bay, the point itself allows every guest an extraordinary and memorable view of stunning sunsets day after day, each more spectacular than the last.
Passing through the incredible hallways, the couple found the meeting location and walked in. Kelli strode purposefully to the only two chairs in the room. Attempting to ease the tension, she gestured dramatically and said to her husband, “Won’t you join me? These are the last seats in the house, and we don’t want to miss this. They say that the teacher is an expert.” With that, Kelli sat down and patted the empty seat to her right.
Bart had no choice but to sit, and as he did, Kelli crossed her arms. “Okay, we’re here,” she said. “It’s seven o’clock. What now?”
The “What Now” walked into the room seconds later. Jones was precisely on time, as he always was. Bart glanced to his left, and had he not been so bewildered himself, he might have laughed out loud a
t the horrified expression on Kelli’s face.
Clearly, the old man was not what she had expected.
Seven
Jones was dressed as always, in jeans and a white T-shirt and wearing leather flip-flops. His snow-white hair was not messy, but neither was it brushed neatly. It was clean, however, and long enough to be finger combed easily from front to back and behind his ears on the sides.
“Good evening, Kelli. Hello, Bart.” Jones welcomed the Porters by shaking their hands. Stepping back a few feet, he quickly sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of them and smiled. His blue eyes sparkled against the background of his dark skin and white hair as he announced, “My name is Jones. I am the teacher who has been chosen for this particular time in your lives.”
Bart and Kelli had exchanged a look when Jones sat down on the floor. From the moment the old man entered the room, both were blindsided by the vast chasm that had instantly appeared between their expectations of a parenting class and whatever this reality was sitting in front of them. So taken aback were they in the moment that neither wondered until much later how the old man knew their names.
Jones placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. Still smiling, he said, “I trust that by the end of our time together, we will have uncovered treasure in forms and ways unimaginable to you right now.”
Kelli reached for Bart’s hand and took it without ever looking away from the old man.
“We have a few minutes before we begin the serious work,” Jones said. “I’d love to hear just a bit about your family and your work. Do you mind? I know you have three children . . . what are their ages?”
“Pardon me,” Bart said, “but how do you know anything about our children? Not to be rude . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jones said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. That is a beautiful charm bracelet, Kelli. Was it a gift?”
