The Lost Art of Porch and Lawn Sitting.
I seldom see anyone sitting in their yard at all these days, least of all their front yards. Oh there are occasional exceptions like the old fellow who would sit in the front yard of the house where he lived with his daughter and her husband. On the hottest July day, one could see the old fellow, dressed in his overalls, with his cane across his lawn chair, and his Co-op cap pulled snugly down on his head, sitting under a maple tree in the front lawn, giving an occasional wave to a car he though he knew, or to someone who had bestowed a wave on him. In general however, one will seldom see a grown person sitting in a lawn chair in front of his house. For that matter, one would seldom see anyone sitting in the back yard these days. Someone might be sitting on a deck or a patio perhaps but seldom on the grass they so meticulously mow and maintain.
Our house was on the corner of Jefferson and Dogwood and I suppose one could make an argument over whether we were sitting in the front yard or the side yard when we sat under the sugar maple trees on the Dogwood side. The fact is, the town could not make up its mind either and changed the address from 400 Jefferson, to 901 Dogwood sometime while I was off in Michigan and not there to protest these mindless pursuits of change that I find so offensive. Nevertheless, my family spent a good deal of time sitting in the yard, waving at neighbors as they passed and on occasion they just pulled their cars over, got out, and pulled up one of the old solid metal, red and white, lawn chairs and joined in the conversation.
It was a time in our history when Nashville had a morning and an evening paper; the Tennessean in the morning and the Banner in the evening. Each of the two papers had a particular political leaning and since we were Democrats, we took the Banner. All of us like to read things we already know, gather facts to support our conculsions, and have our leanings confirmed in print. Also, no one in my family had the time to read a morning paper since school and work came early and we were up, had our bacon, eggs, and biscuits and were out the door in pretty short order on any given day. So every afternoon the paper was left rolled up, just like the Upchurch boys had fixed it to toss onto the lawn, until Daddy got home from work and unrolled it. It was his paper, he paid the bill, and he expected to do the unrolling then dole out the various sections as he was ready. He started with the front page and worked his way to the classifieds announcing, “Who’s got the sports section?” when he was ready for that part and who ever had it was expected to surrender it to him in short order. He wasn’t dictatorial, it was just his paper, and the rest of us were simply reading by grace and left-overs.
After supper, we would sit out under the maple trees with the grown ups talking and sharing the events of their day, while I chased lightening bugs, convinced I would make my fortune selling them to someone in Oak Ridge, or I caught the hard brown bugs that circled our street light in endless dizzying circles. Donnieta did whatever 10 or 12 year old girls do, generally listen to the conversation of parents and grandparents hoping to gain some clue of what the mystifying adult world was all about. We would sit there in the cooling air of the coming dark until we figured the ambient temperature in the house had lowered to somewhere below the boiling point. Eventually, I would crawl up next to Mama or Daddy and drowsily nod and allow myself to come to that pleasant half awake, half asleep state listening to the drowning voices of the adults. Finally, Daddy would yawn; a sign to everyone that bedtime had arrived, and someone would fold that days Banner so it would not be soaking wet from the dew sure to form overnight.
It was during these pleasant evenings under the maple trees that I heard the stories of days gone by that have become such an important part of who I am. It was there I learned about making “truckles”, telling riddles, and how things were in “the olden days” of my father’s and mother’s childhood. It was there I learned about growing up in “hard-times” of the Great Depression. I there learned the rudiments of my parent’s theology, the value of family, and borrowed from the wisdom of my parents and grandparents in a way that allowed to me to incorporate that wisdom into my own life. It is difficult to accomplish these high points in human relations during commercial breaks or between video games.
When we built our current house, it was the last of six which we had built together in our married life. I say “last” because after 35 years as a corporate migrant worker, we have no intention of moving again, God willing. One of the things we made sure we provide for was a long spacious front porch that wraps around the corner of the house and a back porch that can be heated in winter and cooled in summer or simply opened up when the weather permits. It is there that we spend much of our time, surrounded by the trees and flowers and beauty of God’s nature; able to spy on the rabbits, squirrels, humming birds, and deer that wander through this little bit of wilderness we have created. It is there we share with one another the trials and successes of the day and exchange ideas of what comes next on tomorrow and tomorrow as God allows. When our grown children and their wives and children visit, we sit on the front porch and catch up with one another’s lives to the rhythm of the wicker glider, the rockers and the porch swing. Or sometimes we sit on the back porch and pick our guitars and sing to the accompaniment of Flatt and Scruggs, John Denver, or Ricky Skaggs on our iPhones.
We live today in a world short of communication. We have plenty of talk and lots of noise but communication, ideas passed from one human soul to another is in short supply. It occurs to me that a world short on real communication is also likely to be short on real love and a world short on real love will be likely to be short on real civility, trust, and understanding. Sound like any place you know?
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The Love of A Simple Man
Written by Janis Henry, Edited by Bob Chaffin
While I am no theologian, and certainly have no inside information, I feel quite sure there is a reason why love is listed as the first aspect of the Fruit of the Spirit. Without love, how could anyone have Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness or any other of the remaining fruit. If you asked a hundred people to define love, you would probably get a hundred different definitions because Love is so big it is hard to describe in a few words. When the Bible tells us that “God is love”, we get an idea of just how big love is.
If I narrow love down and personalize it to my relationships with my own family, friends, and neighbors, then I hope, and yes even trust, that others will define me as a person who shows love to all, giving it freely and demanding little in return. In my life, I have had the extreme pleasure of knowing someone who lived a life of love this big. (Imagine my arms spread wide.)
In the later years of his life when his hair had turned that distinguished shade of gray and his hands had been roughened by years of farm life, he became known as “Pop” to almost everyone in his family. Pop was a one-of-a-kind person of love. Someone who could make each grandchild and great-grandchild think he loved them better than all the rest. He must have put forth great effort to understand just the thing that each child needed to feel special.
They were married when he was twenty and she was only 16, a mere girl in today’s society, but of prime marriage-eligible age in those days. The town was Alicia Arkansas, which still showed only a population of 145 in the 2000 census and a median household income only slightly above $25,000. To be sure, it was small and poor location to start a marriage in the middle of America’s great depression. But one thing Alicia did have, even back then, was streetlights; and perhaps in tribute to this bit of prosperity, they were married under one. No church, no chapel, only a streetlight.
As incredible as it may seem today, Wiley had to quit school in the second grade to help support his family. He had learned only a bit of the art of reading and writing when he left school, since large farm families often pulled children out of school to help with planting and harvest and progress among the scholars was slow. When World War II came along Wiley Watson was among the 10 million men who answered the call to serve their country. While there he developed a friendship with another soldier who helped him with his writing so he could write letters to, and read letters from, his young wife left at home. However, t was his desire to serve God that drove him to hone his reading aloud skills. He had been asked to read a bible verse for the men’s class at church and badly wanted to be able to contribute in that way. While a teenager in high school, I was recruited ot help him learn the words; and eventually, after a lot of practice and hard work, he learned to read the assigned passages on his own.
Don’t misunderstand though, what Wiley lacked in education, he made up for in love and good judgment. People respected him for his farming skills and he was known as the best rice farmer in NE Arkansas; but it was his love of family and friends, and his high moral values that were the measure of this fine man.
When Wiley “Pop” Watson passed from this life, a friend who is also a songwriter penned these words about his life:
A SIMPLE MAN
“He was just a simple man, so some would proclaim,
But simple’s not so easily defined---and Wiley was his name.
He didn’t have much education, if that’s the value they need.
When he was young he struggled, just to scratch a few words and read.
His occupation was hard labor, and he never made a mint.
His wealth was measured in family and friends, rather than dollars and cents.
A simple man perhaps, but when he went to war,
He fought and almost lost his life---would a general have given more?
Pop and Mom raised their family, in the light of God above.
They held them firmly, but gently, in protecting arms of love.
Pop was beholden only to God---by His Spirit driven.
Many a man might give in return, for the services Pop has given.
He spoke ill of no man---for that was not his way;
and no man ever spoke ill of him---there was nothing bad to say.
In later years his body grew feeble, and he found it hard to hear;
but a friend could find much wisdom there---if he would only lend an ear.
Those of us who are left behind, to measure the worth of our life’s span,
must wonder at the lives that were touched---by the love of a simple man.”
(We gratefully acknowledge Will Campbell of Cabot Arkansas, creator and owner by whose permission these lyrics are reprinted.)
More than fifty years after their marriage under the street light in Alicia, I was privileged to take them back there to find that street light/wedding chapel and make a picture of them as they held hands around the pole.
If you had been around in those days in Arkansas, you might have called him “Pop” or you might have known him as Wiley, but you may have figured out by now that to me he was and will always be “Daddy.”
Thank you, Daddy, for showing me that you loved me unconditionally and for your example of loving and sacrificing for all those around you. What beautiful fruit you have produced!
While I am no theologian, and certainly have no inside information, I feel quite sure there is a reason why love is listed as the first aspect of the Fruit of the Spirit. Without love, how could anyone have Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness or any other of the remaining fruit. If you asked a hundred people to define love, you would probably get a hundred different definitions because Love is so big it is hard to describe in a few words. When the Bible tells us that “God is love”, we get an idea of just how big love is.
If I narrow love down and personalize it to my relationships with my own family, friends, and neighbors, then I hope, and yes even trust, that others will define me as a person who shows love to all, giving it freely and demanding little in return. In my life, I have had the extreme pleasure of knowing someone who lived a life of love this big. (Imagine my arms spread wide.)
In the later years of his life when his hair had turned that distinguished shade of gray and his hands had been roughened by years of farm life, he became known as “Pop” to almost everyone in his family. Pop was a one-of-a-kind person of love. Someone who could make each grandchild and great-grandchild think he loved them better than all the rest. He must have put forth great effort to understand just the thing that each child needed to feel special.
They were married when he was twenty and she was only 16, a mere girl in today’s society, but of prime marriage-eligible age in those days. The town was Alicia Arkansas, which still showed only a population of 145 in the 2000 census and a median household income only slightly above $25,000. To be sure, it was small and poor location to start a marriage in the middle of America’s great depression. But one thing Alicia did have, even back then, was streetlights; and perhaps in tribute to this bit of prosperity, they were married under one. No church, no chapel, only a streetlight.
As incredible as it may seem today, Wiley had to quit school in the second grade to help support his family. He had learned only a bit of the art of reading and writing when he left school, since large farm families often pulled children out of school to help with planting and harvest and progress among the scholars was slow. When World War II came along Wiley Watson was among the 10 million men who answered the call to serve their country. While there he developed a friendship with another soldier who helped him with his writing so he could write letters to, and read letters from, his young wife left at home. However, t was his desire to serve God that drove him to hone his reading aloud skills. He had been asked to read a bible verse for the men’s class at church and badly wanted to be able to contribute in that way. While a teenager in high school, I was recruited ot help him learn the words; and eventually, after a lot of practice and hard work, he learned to read the assigned passages on his own.
Don’t misunderstand though, what Wiley lacked in education, he made up for in love and good judgment. People respected him for his farming skills and he was known as the best rice farmer in NE Arkansas; but it was his love of family and friends, and his high moral values that were the measure of this fine man.
When Wiley “Pop” Watson passed from this life, a friend who is also a songwriter penned these words about his life:
A SIMPLE MAN
“He was just a simple man, so some would proclaim,
But simple’s not so easily defined---and Wiley was his name.
He didn’t have much education, if that’s the value they need.
When he was young he struggled, just to scratch a few words and read.
His occupation was hard labor, and he never made a mint.
His wealth was measured in family and friends, rather than dollars and cents.
A simple man perhaps, but when he went to war,
He fought and almost lost his life---would a general have given more?
Pop and Mom raised their family, in the light of God above.
They held them firmly, but gently, in protecting arms of love.
Pop was beholden only to God---by His Spirit driven.
Many a man might give in return, for the services Pop has given.
He spoke ill of no man---for that was not his way;
and no man ever spoke ill of him---there was nothing bad to say.
In later years his body grew feeble, and he found it hard to hear;
but a friend could find much wisdom there---if he would only lend an ear.
Those of us who are left behind, to measure the worth of our life’s span,
must wonder at the lives that were touched---by the love of a simple man.”
(We gratefully acknowledge Will Campbell of Cabot Arkansas, creator and owner by whose permission these lyrics are reprinted.)
More than fifty years after their marriage under the street light in Alicia, I was privileged to take them back there to find that street light/wedding chapel and make a picture of them as they held hands around the pole.
If you had been around in those days in Arkansas, you might have called him “Pop” or you might have known him as Wiley, but you may have figured out by now that to me he was and will always be “Daddy.”
Thank you, Daddy, for showing me that you loved me unconditionally and for your example of loving and sacrificing for all those around you. What beautiful fruit you have produced!
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Covered By Joy
Covered by Joy
by Penny Wright,
edited by Bob Chaffin
It was 2:00 a.m. when I crept into her hospital room and saw her there, looking like a child, curled up, sound asleep with her “blankie” snuggled up in her arms. She was tired, and rightfully so, because she had brought a precious new soul into the world that day. She had borne our son. Of course, technically he wasn’t ours yet, not legally, but in our hearts he already held a special place as did, I shall call her “Amy.” The blankie was not a blanket at all but a quilt that had been made especially for Amy by Margret (Maggie) Wright, my husband’s grandmother. My “grandmother-in-love”, “Nanny” we called her, loved to make patchwork quilts and she had a special gift for the craft. Making quilts brought her Joy and although she could have made a handsome sum selling what she pieced together, she declared she would never sell a quilt. They were too personal, too much love, too much of herself, went into each one. No they were never sold, they were always given away to commemorate some special event or some special person in her life. So it was with our son’s birthmother, Amy.
I know that Amy’s life had been difficult with no father or mother to “train up this child in the way she should go” and she struggled with many of her own personal demons, perhaps as a result of feeling no one cared for her on this earth. The quilt, picked especially for her to commemorate this great event in her life, this unselfish act of deferring to the welfare of her baby, rather than seeking her own good; was a sign to her that someone cared and that someone approved, at last, of a choice she had made.
I had received one other of Nanny’s quilts earlier and it will retain a life-long special place in my heart. We knew we could not have children by birth and so had tried to adopt for many years, sometimes with heart breaking outcomes. Nanny had made us a baby quilt as a sign of her faith that we would one day have a baby of our own to love and cherish. Even when I lost hope on occasion, I could look at the quilt know that Nanny’s faith remained strong, and that she was always in prayer on our behalf. She remained Joyful and confident that God had a plan for us and that His plan would, in His good time, unfold at just the right moment. The baby quilt not only eventually covered our baby, many times it also covered our fears and our discouragement with Nanny’s love and optimism.
While quilt making and giving was a unique gift in this unusual woman, Nanny found Joy in all things. She found Joy in family, friends and often even strangers. Giving gave her more Joy than receiving, but it was her love and happiness in grandchildren and great grandchildren that provided the centerpiece of Nanny’s Joy. Her home contained some unique decorations, for here and there were crayon scribbled art, obviously the work of a child. “Oh no, “ she would say, “I wouldn’t clean that off, why I remember the day he did that.’
So it is that when I think of the Fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control and a person who represents those qualities, I think of Nanny. I have to admit that picking a single element to focus on is difficult, but overall I think she is best described by JOY. Although she truly embodied many of the elements of that Fruit, the inescapable truth is that all she did, she did with Joy in her heart, while placing Joy in the hearts of others.
I pray that I have just a touch of the Joy Nanny possessed, and that I develop the ability to be joyful and faithful in all things, no matter how simple or how small. She was a shining example and a great blessing to all, not only in our family but to all who knew her. Nanny went to be with the Lord a few years ago now, and last night Pa went to join her. It has given me Joy just knowing she will be there to meet him with a laugh, a smile, and a twinkle in her eye.
I wish all of you Joy like Maggie Wright possessed. Penny
by Penny Wright,
edited by Bob Chaffin
It was 2:00 a.m. when I crept into her hospital room and saw her there, looking like a child, curled up, sound asleep with her “blankie” snuggled up in her arms. She was tired, and rightfully so, because she had brought a precious new soul into the world that day. She had borne our son. Of course, technically he wasn’t ours yet, not legally, but in our hearts he already held a special place as did, I shall call her “Amy.” The blankie was not a blanket at all but a quilt that had been made especially for Amy by Margret (Maggie) Wright, my husband’s grandmother. My “grandmother-in-love”, “Nanny” we called her, loved to make patchwork quilts and she had a special gift for the craft. Making quilts brought her Joy and although she could have made a handsome sum selling what she pieced together, she declared she would never sell a quilt. They were too personal, too much love, too much of herself, went into each one. No they were never sold, they were always given away to commemorate some special event or some special person in her life. So it was with our son’s birthmother, Amy.
I know that Amy’s life had been difficult with no father or mother to “train up this child in the way she should go” and she struggled with many of her own personal demons, perhaps as a result of feeling no one cared for her on this earth. The quilt, picked especially for her to commemorate this great event in her life, this unselfish act of deferring to the welfare of her baby, rather than seeking her own good; was a sign to her that someone cared and that someone approved, at last, of a choice she had made.
I had received one other of Nanny’s quilts earlier and it will retain a life-long special place in my heart. We knew we could not have children by birth and so had tried to adopt for many years, sometimes with heart breaking outcomes. Nanny had made us a baby quilt as a sign of her faith that we would one day have a baby of our own to love and cherish. Even when I lost hope on occasion, I could look at the quilt know that Nanny’s faith remained strong, and that she was always in prayer on our behalf. She remained Joyful and confident that God had a plan for us and that His plan would, in His good time, unfold at just the right moment. The baby quilt not only eventually covered our baby, many times it also covered our fears and our discouragement with Nanny’s love and optimism.
While quilt making and giving was a unique gift in this unusual woman, Nanny found Joy in all things. She found Joy in family, friends and often even strangers. Giving gave her more Joy than receiving, but it was her love and happiness in grandchildren and great grandchildren that provided the centerpiece of Nanny’s Joy. Her home contained some unique decorations, for here and there were crayon scribbled art, obviously the work of a child. “Oh no, “ she would say, “I wouldn’t clean that off, why I remember the day he did that.’
So it is that when I think of the Fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control and a person who represents those qualities, I think of Nanny. I have to admit that picking a single element to focus on is difficult, but overall I think she is best described by JOY. Although she truly embodied many of the elements of that Fruit, the inescapable truth is that all she did, she did with Joy in her heart, while placing Joy in the hearts of others.
I pray that I have just a touch of the Joy Nanny possessed, and that I develop the ability to be joyful and faithful in all things, no matter how simple or how small. She was a shining example and a great blessing to all, not only in our family but to all who knew her. Nanny went to be with the Lord a few years ago now, and last night Pa went to join her. It has given me Joy just knowing she will be there to meet him with a laugh, a smile, and a twinkle in her eye.
I wish all of you Joy like Maggie Wright possessed. Penny
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Why Frank, He's Somebody's Boy
Why Frank, He’s Somebody’s Boy
Written by Joyce Duvall, edited by Bob Chaffin
One of the things I remember most about Mama Hill (Sarah Lucy Hill) was what seemed to a city kid like me, the paradox of the woman. She had such soft lovely hands and when she wrapped you in her arms you felt as if you were to be loved for a lifetime. She was tender and kind with her grown children and farm animals alike, but she was at once firm and dealt in the reality of life that was the lot of a farm woman of the forties and fifties. I remember yet watching her walk softly up to an unsuspecting red hen and with a quick twist take the first steps toward a fried chicken supper. As I have considered that moment through the years it became clear to me why everyone, including her grown children, addressed her as “ma’am.”
Mama Hill had soft twinkly brown eyes and always wore a smile. She laughed softly and often -- she delighted in her 21 grandchildren. We traveled each summer, when the GM plants closed for vacation, to Middle Tennessee to see our beloved relatives. Each time we went to her home, we were given to understand that she could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of our visit, and that we were, indeed, the most favorite of all her favorites!
She was born in 1876, when our nation was but 100 years old, and married Papa at 20 years of age. She was the mother of 9 children and her days were spent doing all the things that a farm wife of the time did. She cooked, sewed, canned, saw that her daughters learned to do all those things, and set a sumptuous table on Sunday for the preacher and any visitors who might come to the Stiversville church of Christ. (When purchasing their farm property, a portion of the land was set aside for the building of the church house.) Stiversville was (and probably still is) a close-knit farming community outside of Columbia, Tennessee where the people there were known to call one another "cousin". I grew up thinking they were all truly my relatives – and many were!
Papa was a farmer, but he also ran his own general store, taught school, served as a county magistrate, was a member of the local school board, and an elder in the church--most of these at the same time! Although primarily a farmer, Papa Hill was an accomplished man who had such a reputation for honesty, fairness, and good judgment that he was often called on for advice, and chosen to settle the occasional dispute among neighbors. Being one of the youngest of their grandchildren, I did not know Papa until his eyesight had failed to the extent that he was forced to use a magnifying glass as he sat on the front porch in the afternoons to read the Bible or the Gospel Advocate.
Mama Hill understood the value of children feeling they were contributing, adding value to the general welfare of the family, and allowed me to work beside her in the kitchen, the garden, and the orchard. I am sure her days must have been full and busy and I probably was more hindrance than help, but she always seemed to have time to answer my questions about farm life, biscuit making, sewing (which she called “handwork”) and other things that a “city girl” would have known no other way. She got up early each morning to fix breakfast for Papa, but she let me sleep late, then help roll and cut out the biscuits for my own breakfast. I suspect she did not dwell on the word “self esteem” much, but she knew how to make me feel fulfilled and competent when a job was well done.
As a child, I was proud of my Tennessee relatives, and their dedication to the church. Mama and Papa were great Bible scholars, knowing and reciting many scriptures from memory. They believed it was the greatest guide for how to conduct their lives and made every attempt to follow its precepts.
Mama Hill was truly a "helpmeet" for Papa -- she helped with the farming, and assisted in every undertaking which he found necessary. At any given time, there were a few tenant families living on the farm who earned their livelihood by taking care of Papa’s crops, etc. In return, each one got a garden plot, a house, and a small piece of ground on which to farm for themselves. It was not part of the deal, nor was it always customary, but Mama and Papa Hill took care of them like family. Mama helped with the births of their children, took care of them when they were sick, and she and Papa made sure that their needs were met.
Mama Hill was also busy in her own house, often doing two or three chores at the same time (like making tea cakes for supper as she cleared the breakfast dishes - while soaking peaches or tomatoes in pots of hot water, in order to make them easier to peel for canning -- or a cobbler!) She felt that every person with whom she came in contact was worthy of her care and compassion.
But above all else, Sarah Lucy Hill personified kindness. During the Great Depression, many homeless people – some would call tramps - traveled along U.S. Highway 31 and would put a rock on the fence of those who had shown them a kindness or given them a meal as a sign to others passing that way. Mama Hill made daily trips to her "spring house" that was cooled by the very cold water of the creek which flowed along Route 31. She often placed food in the spring house for the taking and, if no rock was visible on the fence, she would place one there. Frequently, Papa Hill would come home to find that she had offered their hospitality to a passing stranger -- even to the extent of giving away Papa's clothes or shoes to a man far from home and in need. Being concerned for her safety, he would sometimes chastise her about the wisdom of taking in strangers. All of his concern would be brushed away with a warm, brown-eyed smile and a gentle comment, "Why Frank, he's someone's boy."
When Mama Hill passed from this earth, I was not at all surprised to see that there was not enough room in the Stiversville church of Christ to hold all of those who came to show their love and respect for her. Like Dorcas of Acts 9:36 – 42, many of the mourners had stories to tell of her kindness and generosity toward them. As Doctor Paul Southern of Michigan Christian College used to say, “She was a P 31”. A woman like the virtuous woman of Proverbs 31 – full of kindness.
Have a blessed day, and find someone to be kind to today. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
Written by Joyce Duvall, edited by Bob Chaffin
One of the things I remember most about Mama Hill (Sarah Lucy Hill) was what seemed to a city kid like me, the paradox of the woman. She had such soft lovely hands and when she wrapped you in her arms you felt as if you were to be loved for a lifetime. She was tender and kind with her grown children and farm animals alike, but she was at once firm and dealt in the reality of life that was the lot of a farm woman of the forties and fifties. I remember yet watching her walk softly up to an unsuspecting red hen and with a quick twist take the first steps toward a fried chicken supper. As I have considered that moment through the years it became clear to me why everyone, including her grown children, addressed her as “ma’am.”
Mama Hill had soft twinkly brown eyes and always wore a smile. She laughed softly and often -- she delighted in her 21 grandchildren. We traveled each summer, when the GM plants closed for vacation, to Middle Tennessee to see our beloved relatives. Each time we went to her home, we were given to understand that she could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of our visit, and that we were, indeed, the most favorite of all her favorites!
She was born in 1876, when our nation was but 100 years old, and married Papa at 20 years of age. She was the mother of 9 children and her days were spent doing all the things that a farm wife of the time did. She cooked, sewed, canned, saw that her daughters learned to do all those things, and set a sumptuous table on Sunday for the preacher and any visitors who might come to the Stiversville church of Christ. (When purchasing their farm property, a portion of the land was set aside for the building of the church house.) Stiversville was (and probably still is) a close-knit farming community outside of Columbia, Tennessee where the people there were known to call one another "cousin". I grew up thinking they were all truly my relatives – and many were!
Papa was a farmer, but he also ran his own general store, taught school, served as a county magistrate, was a member of the local school board, and an elder in the church--most of these at the same time! Although primarily a farmer, Papa Hill was an accomplished man who had such a reputation for honesty, fairness, and good judgment that he was often called on for advice, and chosen to settle the occasional dispute among neighbors. Being one of the youngest of their grandchildren, I did not know Papa until his eyesight had failed to the extent that he was forced to use a magnifying glass as he sat on the front porch in the afternoons to read the Bible or the Gospel Advocate.
Mama Hill understood the value of children feeling they were contributing, adding value to the general welfare of the family, and allowed me to work beside her in the kitchen, the garden, and the orchard. I am sure her days must have been full and busy and I probably was more hindrance than help, but she always seemed to have time to answer my questions about farm life, biscuit making, sewing (which she called “handwork”) and other things that a “city girl” would have known no other way. She got up early each morning to fix breakfast for Papa, but she let me sleep late, then help roll and cut out the biscuits for my own breakfast. I suspect she did not dwell on the word “self esteem” much, but she knew how to make me feel fulfilled and competent when a job was well done.
As a child, I was proud of my Tennessee relatives, and their dedication to the church. Mama and Papa were great Bible scholars, knowing and reciting many scriptures from memory. They believed it was the greatest guide for how to conduct their lives and made every attempt to follow its precepts.
Mama Hill was truly a "helpmeet" for Papa -- she helped with the farming, and assisted in every undertaking which he found necessary. At any given time, there were a few tenant families living on the farm who earned their livelihood by taking care of Papa’s crops, etc. In return, each one got a garden plot, a house, and a small piece of ground on which to farm for themselves. It was not part of the deal, nor was it always customary, but Mama and Papa Hill took care of them like family. Mama helped with the births of their children, took care of them when they were sick, and she and Papa made sure that their needs were met.
Mama Hill was also busy in her own house, often doing two or three chores at the same time (like making tea cakes for supper as she cleared the breakfast dishes - while soaking peaches or tomatoes in pots of hot water, in order to make them easier to peel for canning -- or a cobbler!) She felt that every person with whom she came in contact was worthy of her care and compassion.
But above all else, Sarah Lucy Hill personified kindness. During the Great Depression, many homeless people – some would call tramps - traveled along U.S. Highway 31 and would put a rock on the fence of those who had shown them a kindness or given them a meal as a sign to others passing that way. Mama Hill made daily trips to her "spring house" that was cooled by the very cold water of the creek which flowed along Route 31. She often placed food in the spring house for the taking and, if no rock was visible on the fence, she would place one there. Frequently, Papa Hill would come home to find that she had offered their hospitality to a passing stranger -- even to the extent of giving away Papa's clothes or shoes to a man far from home and in need. Being concerned for her safety, he would sometimes chastise her about the wisdom of taking in strangers. All of his concern would be brushed away with a warm, brown-eyed smile and a gentle comment, "Why Frank, he's someone's boy."
When Mama Hill passed from this earth, I was not at all surprised to see that there was not enough room in the Stiversville church of Christ to hold all of those who came to show their love and respect for her. Like Dorcas of Acts 9:36 – 42, many of the mourners had stories to tell of her kindness and generosity toward them. As Doctor Paul Southern of Michigan Christian College used to say, “She was a P 31”. A woman like the virtuous woman of Proverbs 31 – full of kindness.
Have a blessed day, and find someone to be kind to today. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
A Tough Little Knot.
A Tough Little Knot
My father’s parents passed away when he was but a boy and so my mother’s parents were the only grandparents I knew. He was Edgar Monroe Maberry and she was Lola Betsey (Gentry) Maberry. They were from the Morrison’s Creek area of Jackson County which is about 7 miles east of the town of Gainesboro. About 1940, they had moved out of Jackson County to farm Dr. Sloan’s big place in Sullivan’s Bend. Then in 1946 they had gone further from home to farm Judge Hubert Turner’s farm, which lies just north of the new Wal-Mart on the Highway 25 bypass around Carthage. It was a much bigger farm in those days and was bounded by the high school football field on the south, running along the creek and up to the big oak that stood at Clyde White’s house. From there it ran along the Ed Reynolds’ property line to the Cumberland River and probably contained considerably in excess of 500 acres.
Ma Ma and Pa Maberry were an interesting couple, but I’ll tell you about him first. He was smart and crafty, if uneducated. Although he was the son of a teacher, he could not so much as write his name when I first remember. I could never understand the dynamic which led to that, unless it was due to the fact that today he would undoubtedly have been diagnosed as being ADHD. He was often loud, boisterous, could not keep his mind on a single task for more than an hour, but was full of fun and loved pulling a prank on someone.
He believed that hard work, not cleanliness, was next to Godliness and he filled his life with backbreaking, sweat producing, body debilitating, work and it seemed to me that he often sought out the hardest way to accomplish a task.
I remember that we had an old army surplus jeep of the variety with no windshield, no top and canvass seats that we drove back and forth to the fields when we were working in the “bottom land.” It was probably about 3 miles from their house, which stood near the entrance to Smith County Memorial Gardens, to the fields nearest the river, so walking was a formidable task. Many times my Uncle Billy Maberry and I would linger over lunch longer than Pa thought necessary, so he would say, “Well, I’m gonna git started back to the field, you’ns can come on when yer done.” With that he would walk out the door, only to be picked up about a mile down the road as we too started back to the field. It may not have been progress, but it certainly was motion and he seemed to value one as much as the other. Now days, looking back, I suspect it was management by infliction of guilt.
He walked with what we all called a “hippty-hop” since years ago, he had his foot broken by a falling railroad cross tie. (He often carried and loaded crossties for the railroad during the depression to get a little cash money, walking miles each way to the job.) There was no money for a doctor, so the foot was never set and healed with a decided hump which made his foot look somewhat like a claw. He wore high top shoes for both field and Sunday wear, although the Sunday pair was finished and shiny like “slippers” as he called regular dress shoes. His walk was reminiscent of Walter Brennan’s look in “The Real McCoys” television program so we often called him “Grand pappy Amos” with no disrespect intended.
He could not stand to be other than in front of the pack when doing any kind of work, so when we were chopping corn or tobacco, it was not uncommon for him to skip long sections of a row to stay ahead of the group of us who were hoeing adjoining rows and engaging in a little light banter to break the monotony.
Pa never learned to drive, primarily because he could never keep his mind from wandering off the task at hand. While trying to learn, he would spy a cow in the field, or a particularly weedy patch of corn or tobacco and soon would be driving off the road toward the item which had captured his attention. Finally, Mama and Daddy decided that in the interest of curtsey and public safety they would stop trying to give Pa driving lessons. That suited him just fine since he could “catch a ride” from Billy or at last resort from me on the tractor. I have many times driven him to town before I reached the age of 12 with him standing on the drawbar giving me unneeded and unwanted instructions. His objective was the old City Café and a daily meeting of his coffee buddies to discuss the latest in politics – usually only county and state races were of interest to them.
He was what people used to call, “a tough little knot of a man” and he provided for his family in spite of his physical disabilities and lack of education. He always worked and always did the best he could for my mama and her two brothers. He was different, would ask you how much money you made, talk about politics and religion, and had no idea what politically correct meant. As far as he was concerned, it was being on the correct side politically – and that was, of course, his side.
I don’t think a single person would think of him when thinking of patience, for he was seldom patient with the mules he was plowing, me when I was not doing something quite right, or Ma Ma Maberry when he wanted her to come help with what ever he was working on. But he was patient in the way that all farmers are forced to be patient. No weekly paycheck, no monthly paycheck. The tobacco was started in February and the returns came just before Christmas – maybe. The calves came in the spring but didn’t go to market until November. The hay that was cut in June and August, was not of any use until December and January. The corn was planted in April or May and it was weeks before the first green shoots appeared, but the harvest did not come until November. So it was the farmer’s lot to be patient and wait for the early and late rain as the Bible says and Pa Maberry was no different. Although he was not patient by nature, he was patient by calling, and perhaps that is what counts.
“Therefore be patient, brethren, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, until it gets the early and late rains.” James 5:7
We like Pa Maberry are called to be patient through the excesses of this world we live in, waiting for the reward which will surely come.
Have a blessed day, Bob bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
My father’s parents passed away when he was but a boy and so my mother’s parents were the only grandparents I knew. He was Edgar Monroe Maberry and she was Lola Betsey (Gentry) Maberry. They were from the Morrison’s Creek area of Jackson County which is about 7 miles east of the town of Gainesboro. About 1940, they had moved out of Jackson County to farm Dr. Sloan’s big place in Sullivan’s Bend. Then in 1946 they had gone further from home to farm Judge Hubert Turner’s farm, which lies just north of the new Wal-Mart on the Highway 25 bypass around Carthage. It was a much bigger farm in those days and was bounded by the high school football field on the south, running along the creek and up to the big oak that stood at Clyde White’s house. From there it ran along the Ed Reynolds’ property line to the Cumberland River and probably contained considerably in excess of 500 acres.
Ma Ma and Pa Maberry were an interesting couple, but I’ll tell you about him first. He was smart and crafty, if uneducated. Although he was the son of a teacher, he could not so much as write his name when I first remember. I could never understand the dynamic which led to that, unless it was due to the fact that today he would undoubtedly have been diagnosed as being ADHD. He was often loud, boisterous, could not keep his mind on a single task for more than an hour, but was full of fun and loved pulling a prank on someone.
He believed that hard work, not cleanliness, was next to Godliness and he filled his life with backbreaking, sweat producing, body debilitating, work and it seemed to me that he often sought out the hardest way to accomplish a task.
I remember that we had an old army surplus jeep of the variety with no windshield, no top and canvass seats that we drove back and forth to the fields when we were working in the “bottom land.” It was probably about 3 miles from their house, which stood near the entrance to Smith County Memorial Gardens, to the fields nearest the river, so walking was a formidable task. Many times my Uncle Billy Maberry and I would linger over lunch longer than Pa thought necessary, so he would say, “Well, I’m gonna git started back to the field, you’ns can come on when yer done.” With that he would walk out the door, only to be picked up about a mile down the road as we too started back to the field. It may not have been progress, but it certainly was motion and he seemed to value one as much as the other. Now days, looking back, I suspect it was management by infliction of guilt.
He walked with what we all called a “hippty-hop” since years ago, he had his foot broken by a falling railroad cross tie. (He often carried and loaded crossties for the railroad during the depression to get a little cash money, walking miles each way to the job.) There was no money for a doctor, so the foot was never set and healed with a decided hump which made his foot look somewhat like a claw. He wore high top shoes for both field and Sunday wear, although the Sunday pair was finished and shiny like “slippers” as he called regular dress shoes. His walk was reminiscent of Walter Brennan’s look in “The Real McCoys” television program so we often called him “Grand pappy Amos” with no disrespect intended.
He could not stand to be other than in front of the pack when doing any kind of work, so when we were chopping corn or tobacco, it was not uncommon for him to skip long sections of a row to stay ahead of the group of us who were hoeing adjoining rows and engaging in a little light banter to break the monotony.
Pa never learned to drive, primarily because he could never keep his mind from wandering off the task at hand. While trying to learn, he would spy a cow in the field, or a particularly weedy patch of corn or tobacco and soon would be driving off the road toward the item which had captured his attention. Finally, Mama and Daddy decided that in the interest of curtsey and public safety they would stop trying to give Pa driving lessons. That suited him just fine since he could “catch a ride” from Billy or at last resort from me on the tractor. I have many times driven him to town before I reached the age of 12 with him standing on the drawbar giving me unneeded and unwanted instructions. His objective was the old City Café and a daily meeting of his coffee buddies to discuss the latest in politics – usually only county and state races were of interest to them.
He was what people used to call, “a tough little knot of a man” and he provided for his family in spite of his physical disabilities and lack of education. He always worked and always did the best he could for my mama and her two brothers. He was different, would ask you how much money you made, talk about politics and religion, and had no idea what politically correct meant. As far as he was concerned, it was being on the correct side politically – and that was, of course, his side.
I don’t think a single person would think of him when thinking of patience, for he was seldom patient with the mules he was plowing, me when I was not doing something quite right, or Ma Ma Maberry when he wanted her to come help with what ever he was working on. But he was patient in the way that all farmers are forced to be patient. No weekly paycheck, no monthly paycheck. The tobacco was started in February and the returns came just before Christmas – maybe. The calves came in the spring but didn’t go to market until November. The hay that was cut in June and August, was not of any use until December and January. The corn was planted in April or May and it was weeks before the first green shoots appeared, but the harvest did not come until November. So it was the farmer’s lot to be patient and wait for the early and late rain as the Bible says and Pa Maberry was no different. Although he was not patient by nature, he was patient by calling, and perhaps that is what counts.
“Therefore be patient, brethren, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, until it gets the early and late rains.” James 5:7
We like Pa Maberry are called to be patient through the excesses of this world we live in, waiting for the reward which will surely come.
Have a blessed day, Bob bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Having the Last Laugh
The Last Laugh
His name was Ed Lafever and when I first met him he told me he was 95 years old and that he had lived in the Cherry Hill Community nearly all of his 95 years. Cherry Hill is one of those communities where little remains to indicate it was a community. At one time there were as many as three general stores and a school there. Not just a one room school, but all twelve grades through high school. It is located on highway 56 just where the road exits at Silver Point to run from I40 to Smithville. As one crosses the Putnam/Dekalb County line near Center Hill Lake, you pass through what once was the epicenter of Cherry Hill. His house was small but clean and neat, I am sure due to the loving attention of his daughters who looked in on him regularly. They and his grandchildren were the light of his life, since his wife Helen had long since been laid to rest in the little family plot a little to the north and east of his house.
The brown eyed girl and I visited him because he was a first cousin to her daddy who had passed away a number of years before. When we began working on “Ridin’ the Blinds,” which told her daddy’s story. we became frequent visitors. Orphaned at the age of 5, George Lafever, my father-in-law, had been raised by his grandparents on the old Lafever home place which sits just to the north of Ed’s house. Ed’s father was Oziar Lafever whom everyone called Ode. He was a brother to George’s father, and George and Ed and the other cousins grew up pretty much like brothers there in the cosmopolitan climes of Cherry Hill. To look at Ed was to see George, and no one could miss the impact of the common DNA on looks and mannerisms.
Ed was an interviewer’s dream. You could simply prime his pump with a few appropriate questions such as: “Were you old enough to go into the service in World War II?” and off he would go with a detailed and interesting story about how he rode the train from the west coast across the country guarding POW’s bound for prison camps and all of the interesting things that happened along the way. Or perhaps I would ask if he remembered what the Caney Fork was like before Center Hill Dam was built and for the next hour we would learn about summer fish camps where cool cave springs provided natural air conditioning, and hear about the Maynard “Holler” and the people that lived there before the icy waters of the Caney plunged it into the kingdom of Neptune.
We must have visited a dozen or more times prior to publishing the book in 2008, and it is difficult to determine who enjoyed the visits more, the brown eyed girl and I, or Ed. We all had a wonderful time laughing and remembering with me trying to keep that wonderful pump of memories primed.
On one trip he announced that he had purchased a 4 wheeler, and walking with the unsure gait of one his age, he took us down to the shed behind his house to show us an enormous 4 wheeler that dwarfed his now frail frame. At first we were alarmed at the thought of him riding the monster, but as the conversation continued, it became clear the purchase had been made to accommodate and entice his grandchildren, who came there on the weekends. He spoke of Possum hunting with Fowler Stanton who had been his lifelong friend and my former band director, and trying to score “shine” with his teenage buddies. Once, he walked us carefully down to the blacksmith shop where he told the story of how his grandmother, upon discovering his “Uncle Joe’s” pistol, had taken it down there and beat it to pieces on “that very anvil”.
Toward the end of the interviews, we had gone in to find that he had his single barrel shot gun propped up against the couch, ready for business. He explained that a stranger had showed up at his door and told him he was from the government and that he was going to measure his house to see if it was small enough to be eligible for exemption from taxes. The stranger had given Ed the end of a tape measure and told him he was to hold it by the end while the stranger went into the other rooms of the house to “measure.” Ed was old but not dumb and he knew something was up and that the stranger was likely searching for money or valuables while Ed stood holding the end of the tape measure. He was also sharp enough to realize that to confront the stranger was to invite being beaten senseless or killed. Thinking quickly, he managed to hook the tape measure to a door knob and maneuver himself to the couch where the shot gun lay hidden. When he had secured and cocked the old single barrel, he simply let the end of the tape measure drop. The stranger began to swear and curse Ed for letting go saying he was “messing up the measurements” but when he appeared in the doorway of the front room again he was shocked to find the 95 year old had the drop on him and told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he did not leave in a dead run and keep on going. The stranger accepted the invitation to evacuate. “After that,” Ed declared, “I promised myself I would keep that thing loaded.”
Finally one morning the call which we had been dreading came, Ed had crossed the bar and I found myself being thankful for every hour we had spent listening and collecting the stories he had shared with us.
One of his son-in-laws conducted the funeral service and did a wonderful job of telling of this person of Joy. He told of the Joy with which Ed received them each time they came to visit, of the exuberance he felt toward life in general. How, even in his declining years, he was interesting and interested in life and living. I suppose some would have found his life bleak and joyless, but to Ed that never appeared to be the case. He found joy in his friends who sat on the front porch in the cool of the evening and talked with him, he found joy in his daughter’s great salsa made from tomatoes in his garden, he found joy in just looking at the big red 4 wheeler, he found joy in giving and we never left his home without a can of tomato juice or some other gift that he insisted we take. One Christmas Eve, we took our son and daughter-in-law and two of our grandchildren to visit him, brought with us fruit, candy and other small gifts reminiscent of Christmas gone by, but he would not let the children leave empty handed. He pulled from his wallet two crisp one dollar bills and pressed them in their chubby little palms.
His needs were simple and family and friends were everything. When once we witnessed a daughter tenderly ministering to him by washing his feet and then rubbing them with lotion, or when we listened to another speak of him adoringly, there could be little doubt in our minds that he was a rich man indeed.
As we sat together through the funeral service, holding hands for comfort against a day of gray skies and drizzle, I was shocked to hear his son-in-law say that Ed was 93 years old! “Dave”, I asked, “did I misunderstand, I though Ed told me several years ago that he was 95?” “Oh,” Dave said, “he has been telling everyone that since before he was 90. He thought it sounded better.”
Well Ed, as always, you had the last laugh and I will always remember you as a man of great Joy.
Matthew 6:34 says, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself;” and I never saw it lived out better than the life of Ed Lafever. Have a blessed day,
Bob Robert.r.chaffin@gmail.com
His name was Ed Lafever and when I first met him he told me he was 95 years old and that he had lived in the Cherry Hill Community nearly all of his 95 years. Cherry Hill is one of those communities where little remains to indicate it was a community. At one time there were as many as three general stores and a school there. Not just a one room school, but all twelve grades through high school. It is located on highway 56 just where the road exits at Silver Point to run from I40 to Smithville. As one crosses the Putnam/Dekalb County line near Center Hill Lake, you pass through what once was the epicenter of Cherry Hill. His house was small but clean and neat, I am sure due to the loving attention of his daughters who looked in on him regularly. They and his grandchildren were the light of his life, since his wife Helen had long since been laid to rest in the little family plot a little to the north and east of his house.
The brown eyed girl and I visited him because he was a first cousin to her daddy who had passed away a number of years before. When we began working on “Ridin’ the Blinds,” which told her daddy’s story. we became frequent visitors. Orphaned at the age of 5, George Lafever, my father-in-law, had been raised by his grandparents on the old Lafever home place which sits just to the north of Ed’s house. Ed’s father was Oziar Lafever whom everyone called Ode. He was a brother to George’s father, and George and Ed and the other cousins grew up pretty much like brothers there in the cosmopolitan climes of Cherry Hill. To look at Ed was to see George, and no one could miss the impact of the common DNA on looks and mannerisms.
Ed was an interviewer’s dream. You could simply prime his pump with a few appropriate questions such as: “Were you old enough to go into the service in World War II?” and off he would go with a detailed and interesting story about how he rode the train from the west coast across the country guarding POW’s bound for prison camps and all of the interesting things that happened along the way. Or perhaps I would ask if he remembered what the Caney Fork was like before Center Hill Dam was built and for the next hour we would learn about summer fish camps where cool cave springs provided natural air conditioning, and hear about the Maynard “Holler” and the people that lived there before the icy waters of the Caney plunged it into the kingdom of Neptune.
We must have visited a dozen or more times prior to publishing the book in 2008, and it is difficult to determine who enjoyed the visits more, the brown eyed girl and I, or Ed. We all had a wonderful time laughing and remembering with me trying to keep that wonderful pump of memories primed.
On one trip he announced that he had purchased a 4 wheeler, and walking with the unsure gait of one his age, he took us down to the shed behind his house to show us an enormous 4 wheeler that dwarfed his now frail frame. At first we were alarmed at the thought of him riding the monster, but as the conversation continued, it became clear the purchase had been made to accommodate and entice his grandchildren, who came there on the weekends. He spoke of Possum hunting with Fowler Stanton who had been his lifelong friend and my former band director, and trying to score “shine” with his teenage buddies. Once, he walked us carefully down to the blacksmith shop where he told the story of how his grandmother, upon discovering his “Uncle Joe’s” pistol, had taken it down there and beat it to pieces on “that very anvil”.
Toward the end of the interviews, we had gone in to find that he had his single barrel shot gun propped up against the couch, ready for business. He explained that a stranger had showed up at his door and told him he was from the government and that he was going to measure his house to see if it was small enough to be eligible for exemption from taxes. The stranger had given Ed the end of a tape measure and told him he was to hold it by the end while the stranger went into the other rooms of the house to “measure.” Ed was old but not dumb and he knew something was up and that the stranger was likely searching for money or valuables while Ed stood holding the end of the tape measure. He was also sharp enough to realize that to confront the stranger was to invite being beaten senseless or killed. Thinking quickly, he managed to hook the tape measure to a door knob and maneuver himself to the couch where the shot gun lay hidden. When he had secured and cocked the old single barrel, he simply let the end of the tape measure drop. The stranger began to swear and curse Ed for letting go saying he was “messing up the measurements” but when he appeared in the doorway of the front room again he was shocked to find the 95 year old had the drop on him and told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he did not leave in a dead run and keep on going. The stranger accepted the invitation to evacuate. “After that,” Ed declared, “I promised myself I would keep that thing loaded.”
Finally one morning the call which we had been dreading came, Ed had crossed the bar and I found myself being thankful for every hour we had spent listening and collecting the stories he had shared with us.
One of his son-in-laws conducted the funeral service and did a wonderful job of telling of this person of Joy. He told of the Joy with which Ed received them each time they came to visit, of the exuberance he felt toward life in general. How, even in his declining years, he was interesting and interested in life and living. I suppose some would have found his life bleak and joyless, but to Ed that never appeared to be the case. He found joy in his friends who sat on the front porch in the cool of the evening and talked with him, he found joy in his daughter’s great salsa made from tomatoes in his garden, he found joy in just looking at the big red 4 wheeler, he found joy in giving and we never left his home without a can of tomato juice or some other gift that he insisted we take. One Christmas Eve, we took our son and daughter-in-law and two of our grandchildren to visit him, brought with us fruit, candy and other small gifts reminiscent of Christmas gone by, but he would not let the children leave empty handed. He pulled from his wallet two crisp one dollar bills and pressed them in their chubby little palms.
His needs were simple and family and friends were everything. When once we witnessed a daughter tenderly ministering to him by washing his feet and then rubbing them with lotion, or when we listened to another speak of him adoringly, there could be little doubt in our minds that he was a rich man indeed.
As we sat together through the funeral service, holding hands for comfort against a day of gray skies and drizzle, I was shocked to hear his son-in-law say that Ed was 93 years old! “Dave”, I asked, “did I misunderstand, I though Ed told me several years ago that he was 95?” “Oh,” Dave said, “he has been telling everyone that since before he was 90. He thought it sounded better.”
Well Ed, as always, you had the last laugh and I will always remember you as a man of great Joy.
Matthew 6:34 says, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself;” and I never saw it lived out better than the life of Ed Lafever. Have a blessed day,
Bob Robert.r.chaffin@gmail.com
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Peddle Andy Peddle,
The brown eyed girl and I found ourselves in Blowing Rock North Carolina this week, a town which I knew little if anything about and which, in fact, I hardly knew existed. As we were walking up the street toward our hotel we cut through a little park with lots of play equipment for children. As might be expected, there were a couple of little girls and a small boy playing on the “monkey bars” and a little way away I noticed an older man, about my age I suppose, watching the three. Immediately my mind went to what the old fellow might be up too and so I lingered behind a bit to just watch. In a few minutes he called the three over and it became evident this was their grandfather, watching to make sure out of town characters, like me, did not cause any harm to his precious charges. Quickly my doubts turned to feeling a little ashamed that I had so quickly characterized the man.
Just hours before, we had departed Mt. Airy North Carolina where Andy Griffith grew up and the town which became the model for Maberry of “The Andy Griffith Show.” The lady from the Chamber of Commerce who was showing us around, stressed over and over the places where Andy once peddled his bike, always saying, “Andy just peddled his bike over here to take trombone lessons, In those days, a child could go anywhere safely here in town,” leaving us to infer that this was not true today.
I know it was true of Carthage when we were growing up. We rode our bikes at night and hung out under the old fluted shade street lamps, fighting the bugs that circled around above. We roller skated on the newly asphalted streets and trick-r-treated from house to house across the length and breadth of the town from the time we were in the third grade. I personally was not a fan of the hot lunch program at school, and so walked home for lunch, generally in the pleasurable company of a few other kids who though a sandwich at home beat “mystery meat” at school. We played “cops-n-robbers” and “kick-the-can” until ten o’clock, generally avoiding coming within hearing distance of our own house for fear our mothers might call.
Never in my memory was there any mention of fear that someone would take us away. Probably our parents’ consensus was, when daylight came, and anyone who might have taken us away saw in the clear light of day what they had, they would bring us back. At any rate they didn’t seem to worry in the slightest.
I’m not sure I know whether things are just so much worse today, or whether the 24 hour news cycle, in search of some new, startling, and awful thing to tell us, just makes us keenly aware of the dangers that can exist, but I am quite sure my own kids would never allow my grandchildren to do the things we did, and neither would I.
It saddens me though, to think of the loss of innocence, not only of children but of our nation as a whole. We have, as a people, become aware beyond our years of the dangers that await the unsuspecting, and the harm that can befall the innocent, and our days are watchful and our sleep troubled as a result. Eccl. 7:10 says, “Say not the former days are better than these.” But I find that hard advice to follow these days. Have a blessed day, Bob bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
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