My brother, now long since grown grey and retired, goes by the name Ted. But in those days, he was known by his middle name, Gwan and is still Gwan to me even today. In theory at least, he and I walked to school together each day, under a cloud of threat of bodily harm from our mother if we separated. Keating Elementary was only a few blocks away from our home and back then most families had only one car, and the one car was seldom used by moms, or anyone else to deliver kids to school. As my Grandpa, whom we all called Papa said, we arrived by “shanks mare.” In fact, many “housewives”, if not most, were like my own mom and had not yet learned to drive, at least not in the big city. Sitting in the driver’s seat had been considered a man’s job and privilege before the war, but, with the introduction of “Rosy the Riveter” to the workforce, things were changing and would stay forever changed.
By late 1943 the great American war production machine had been geared up to spit out the guns, ammunition, tanks, planes and ships needed to drive the Italians, Germans, and Japanese out of the lands they had taken by force and to put them on the defensive. The war department in concert with Hollywood and the media were not at all subtle in suggesting that if you were an able bodied woman and simply sitting at home doing anything so mundane as raising a family, you were more than a little suspect of being patriotically challenged. All of these working women slid behind the wheel of automobiles to get to work and found the seat to their liking. In the period following the end of World War II, prosperity combined with newly realized “needs” produced a period of automobile production that was phenomenal as families went from one to two to three cars. The irony of this change in society is that the countries that had forced the change, Germany and Japan, became the prime producer of the “second car.” I remember quite clearly a billboard display near downtown Detroit that showed the back end of a Volkswagen Beetle sitting in a two-car garage next to a Detroit “big three” product, fins and all, with the caption “MOTHER’S LITTLE HELPER”. It was at least a decade and a half before Detroit took the VW and Datsun seriously. After all, “made in Japan” meant cheap, not quality. It was big mistake – huge, on Detroit’s part.
Being two years older than I, Gwan felt very much “the boss of me,” and was daily compelled to issue copious instructions and loudly announce belittling remarks, to his little sister, mostly for the benefit of his older boy friends. Of course he thought me very ignorant of the ways of the world, other children, and Keating Elementary School – which happily, at five years old, I suppose I was. I vividly remember that it was on one walk to school, when we were passing a horse drawn junk wagon, that he felt compelled to explain to me from where ponies came. I could not have been less interested, was pretty sure what he was telling me was impossible, and generally tried to disregard his detailed instructions. It was not sex education’s finest moment.
Since we lived on the near east side, just south of Jefferson Avenue, the Detroit River was only a few blocks away. On foggy nights, lying in my bed, I could hear the gigantic ocean freighters sound their big horns to warn other vessels passing them in the shipping channel of their presence. After a minute or so the other ship would answer and so the calls and answers would go throughout the night. Somehow it was lonesome sounding, like the mournful sound of a freight train in the night. You always knew that there were people out there, busily working through the mist shrouded night while I was tucked snugly in my warm bed.
I also remember that the army had some sort of installation next to the river and there it kept row upon row of armored tanks. Perhaps it was a storage and shipping point, since both Chrysler and Cadillac had converted their normal production of automobiles to wartime purposes and manufactured Sherman Tanks to supply General Patton’s famous Third Armor. I know that they supplied other Generals also, but General Patton was the one whose name appeared in the Detroit News every day and was best know by little girls like me. There was a constant stream of warnings in Detroit to be on the lookout for sabotage (Sabataurers were the terrorist of our day). A number of army boys, handsome in their uniforms, were stationed there to guard the precious goods which the installation held. Mamma constantly warned us not to “be fooling around down there around those boys.” Although no one could doubt the wisdom of Mamma’s fears, as I think back, I suspect that most of them were barely older that teenage boys, homesick for whatever town in America they had come from, and missing their own kinfolk. Usually soldiers “just want to go home.”
Mamma had grown up in the Hickey Community. Hickey was not really a town, rather it was an area that boasted a crossroads, a couple of small stores, a church building or two and an elementary school, or grade school, as my cousins and aunts in Tennessee called it. Hickey was just east of Silverpoint, Tennessee about seven miles from the town of Baxter and was geographically located about halfway between the towns of Cookeville and Gordonsville. Today it is adjacent to the busy I40 corridor and has its own exit by which folks from Nashville take highway 56 to Center Hill Lake and to Smithville to attend the annual Old Time Fiddlers Contest. But, in the days prior to Center Hill Dam and Interstate Forty the community was rural and isolated, since the only route into the area was via narrow, two lane, mostly gravel roads or by the Tennessee Central Railroad which ran from Nashville to Knoxville and directly through Silver Point. Of course it was not a regular stop, only a flag stop, meaning that you had to set a flag down the tracks if you wanted the train to stop, otherwise it just went right on through hooking the outgoing mail bag and throwing the incoming mail onto the depot platform.
In contrast to this rural life, the dangers of metropolitan Detroit, already teeming with millions of people who had come to get cash paying jobs in the automobile and defense plants, must have seemed enormous indeed to a gentle soul like Mamma. She continually warned us against going near the river, about going near the soldiers at the military installation, against strangers on Jefferson, and about playing in the alley. .......
Monday, October 18, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Showers of Blessings
Showers of Blessings -----------------------------------------------
I went to a book signing the other night at Carthage, TN and was pleased to find a number of people there whom I had known, or known of. Among them was “Buddy” Butler whose father ran the Butler Barber Shop in Carthage when I was a boy. I didn’t really know Buddy, but knew his younger brother, Lewis, very well since we were in school together. I couldn't help remembering thatIt was their grandfather, J. W. Butler, who wrote the law which occasioned the so called “monkey trial” in Dayton, TN. In order to understand J.W. Butler and the drivers for him you must understand the times then.
“In Tennessee, farm folks aware of the eroding moral values that came with the roaring twenties, clung even tighter to the religious beliefs that seemed to create an anchor in a tide sweeping all that they held dear out to sea. Churches like the Baptists, Church of Christ, and other fundamentalist groups, rose in popularity. These groups, which accepted a literal interpretation of the Bible, did not always agree on many points of doctrine, but they all recognized the danger and long term impact of Darwin’s “Origin of the Species” and its theory of evolution by the process of “Natural Selection.” Faced with changes to society on every hand, they were determined to take control where they could and set out to eliminate this offensive teaching of Darwin’s theory from their public education systems.
By 1925, many southern states had passed laws prohibiting teaching evolution in public school classrooms. In Tennessee, a Macon County rural farmer/legislator by the name of J. W. Butler, introduced a bill making the teaching of Darwin’s Theory unlawful. The Legislature passed the Butler Law, with many politicians believing that it would not be challenged. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) in New York had other ideas however, and began to devise a way to bring about a court case that would test the constitutionality of the law. Thus came the Scopes trial in Dayton Tennessee.” (from Ridin’ the Blinds)
Buddy Butler told a story last Monday about Slicker Snake and his habits. It seems that the some what unconventional bachelor was less than fastidious about his personal habits and was known to take an annual shower at the facility which Buddy Butler’s father kept at the barber shop in town. Slicker Snake wore sweaters and would simply add a layer of sweaters as the weather got colder in the winter. As the winter was nearing an end on one particular year, Slicker Snake complained that he had lost a sweater somewhere and was unable to locate it anywhere. When he showed up for his annual spring shower at Mr. Butler’s Barber Shop, he came out following the cleansing in a particularly good mood, announcing that he was relieved that he had found the sweater he had lost last year. He had left it in the shower closet on the last annual scrubbing.
Jesus said, “You are clean, but not all.” I don't think this was the kind of clean to which He was referring.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN. Bob
I went to a book signing the other night at Carthage, TN and was pleased to find a number of people there whom I had known, or known of. Among them was “Buddy” Butler whose father ran the Butler Barber Shop in Carthage when I was a boy. I didn’t really know Buddy, but knew his younger brother, Lewis, very well since we were in school together. I couldn't help remembering thatIt was their grandfather, J. W. Butler, who wrote the law which occasioned the so called “monkey trial” in Dayton, TN. In order to understand J.W. Butler and the drivers for him you must understand the times then.
“In Tennessee, farm folks aware of the eroding moral values that came with the roaring twenties, clung even tighter to the religious beliefs that seemed to create an anchor in a tide sweeping all that they held dear out to sea. Churches like the Baptists, Church of Christ, and other fundamentalist groups, rose in popularity. These groups, which accepted a literal interpretation of the Bible, did not always agree on many points of doctrine, but they all recognized the danger and long term impact of Darwin’s “Origin of the Species” and its theory of evolution by the process of “Natural Selection.” Faced with changes to society on every hand, they were determined to take control where they could and set out to eliminate this offensive teaching of Darwin’s theory from their public education systems.
By 1925, many southern states had passed laws prohibiting teaching evolution in public school classrooms. In Tennessee, a Macon County rural farmer/legislator by the name of J. W. Butler, introduced a bill making the teaching of Darwin’s Theory unlawful. The Legislature passed the Butler Law, with many politicians believing that it would not be challenged. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) in New York had other ideas however, and began to devise a way to bring about a court case that would test the constitutionality of the law. Thus came the Scopes trial in Dayton Tennessee.” (from Ridin’ the Blinds)
Buddy Butler told a story last Monday about Slicker Snake and his habits. It seems that the some what unconventional bachelor was less than fastidious about his personal habits and was known to take an annual shower at the facility which Buddy Butler’s father kept at the barber shop in town. Slicker Snake wore sweaters and would simply add a layer of sweaters as the weather got colder in the winter. As the winter was nearing an end on one particular year, Slicker Snake complained that he had lost a sweater somewhere and was unable to locate it anywhere. When he showed up for his annual spring shower at Mr. Butler’s Barber Shop, he came out following the cleansing in a particularly good mood, announcing that he was relieved that he had found the sweater he had lost last year. He had left it in the shower closet on the last annual scrubbing.
Jesus said, “You are clean, but not all.” I don't think this was the kind of clean to which He was referring.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN. Bob
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Christian College First - Remembering DLC
Remembering the late David Lipscomb College--------------------------------------- I remember what it was like the very first time I walked onto the David Lipscomb College campus as a student. It was September and Freshman Week began on Tuesday but we were able to check in to the Dorm on Sunday. The only thing was, I was not checking in to the dorm, I was going to be “rooming” with my sister and her husband. They had been married only a couple of years and were going through the usual struggles of a newly married couple; and my dad had made an arrangement with them to allow me to room with them which would permit them to move out of the tiny apartment they had just off 12th avenue, south of Shelby Park, and into a duplex on Warfield Drive, near Green Hills Mall. The Mall was then what would later be called a “strip mall” since Cain Sloan, the anchor store was not connected with the other stores which shared a common parking spot, except by a covered sidewalk.
So I didn’t go to the campus directly, I went to the house where not only was I moving in, my sister and her husband were moving in also.
It was the beautiful fall of 1962, and John F. Kennedy was president. He had just affirmed to the world that America would put a man on the moon by the end of that decade and Fidel Castro had begun to make deals with the Soviet Union that the world was finding increasingly uncomfortable. Not to be outdone by Fats Domino, an artist by the name of Chubby Checker had introduced a song called “The Twist” and everybody was doing the dance it suggested. Tony Bennett was riding the top of the charts with “I left my heart in San Francisco” and Bobby Vinton was telling the world that “Roses are Red my love.” The Contours were asking,”Do You Love Me?” and Ray Charles was answering with, “I can’t stop loving you.” My personal favorites were “The Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler and “The Wanderer” by Dion. As I left Carthage, striking out into the world on the new adventure of college, I could indeed picture myself as “The Wanderer.” I suppose it escaped me that I was going to a Christian College with copious rules, to be living with my big sister, her husband and new baby, Jeff. Somewhat limited freedom by today’s standards.
It was not until the next day after move in that I took the first tentative walk over to the campus and discovered that my walk to school was to be some mile and one half each day. But, I was used to walking, had no car nor any hopes of getting one, besides, freshmen were not allowed cars in those days anyway. The first trip was just a recon to see who might be moving in and discover if there were any friendly faces in the crowd. There were plenty of friendly faces, but all of them were strangers looking for some other friendly face, just as was I.
It was not until the next day I began to make some acquaintances in earnest, having discovered that the walk home from campus after dark was very long, especially it rain was falling. Things were beginning to build to the school year in earnest by Tuesday evening and it was then that I discovered that my cousin Morris Mabry had come to school early to “check out the freshman talent,” in his words. He greeted me with the news that Jan Lafever, a mutual friend from Detroit, eventually to be know as the brown eyed girl, had decided to come to Lipscomb as a freshman and was indeed in that very Student Center.
By Thursday of freshman week various upperclassmen were beginning to show up providing familiar faces, and the “Faculty Fireside” that night followed the “Freshman Mixer” earlier in the evening in which we played various renamed versions of hide and seek and red rover. And yes, Red Rover by any other name is just as juvenile. On Friday the freshmen were taken to Percy Warner Park and various games were the order of the day. I passed the girls softball and noted with some surprise that the brown eyed girl was pitching for the home team, or was it the other team, I forget. She didn't seem like the pitcher type, but I was to learn that she was much more rugged than she appeared.
By the weekend, the real college students had all arrived and the campus was jumping and I loved it, I loved every bit of it, because I had never been away from home before, and never been with so many young people who did not already have you pegged into that old high school pigeon hole. All things were new and you were able to get a fresh start. I didn’t join the band, much to everyone’s surprise, but became friends with folks who were in class and with the guys with whom my cousin was running around. I soon didn’t even mind the walk since it gave me time to think and smoke, a nasty habit I had acquired in high school, could not pursue on campus, and would not give up for another ten years or so.. As for the brown eyed girl, she and I were “just friends” and might end up hanging out together on campus, or going with a group somewhere, but she was clearly uninterested in any romantic involvement, with anyone - probably most especially me.
Faculty Fireside was quite an experience since a number of us ended up “left over” and were caught going to the Home Economics, Home Management House to spend fireside with Miss Margret Carter. It was raining a slow drizzle outside and since none of us had a car, we ended up walking in the steady rain. The brown eyed girl was also in that group of leftovers and had on a pair of red flat shoes, which were ruined by the time we got to our destination. That was the first time I noticed her affinity for red shoes. In don’t think since that time she has been without a pair of red shoes, which she claims brightens you day if you are feeling blue.
The following week we all settled into classes and I learned that the competitive field at David Lipscomb College was somewhat more challenging than Smith County High School. Everything was graded on a strict curve, particularly in the freshman year which meant that 20 – 25 percent of the students in a given class were likely to receive a D or an F in that class. Lipscomb had an open enrollment policy which meant anyone could apply and enter, but in your first sessions students were invited to look to their right and their left and note that one of the three of you would not survive beyond the first quarter, and that two of the three of you would not return the following year. I didn’t know if my goose was cooked, but I knew it was pretty warm.
Now that I look back I find myself glad that God does not grade on a curve. With Him we are judged not by the performance or spirituality of others, but by his own standard, highly tempered with Grace and Mercy. And He allows us a fresh start, to escape the pigeonhole into which we have placed ourselves. All things are new.
I survived the first quarter with only a D in Biology and survived the first year with only an additional D in Physics. No more Ds were in my future, thankfully. In spite of the hard work in front of me, it might have been one of the most exciting years of my life. It is a place that holds a special fondness in my heart. "Christian College First" was the phrase our two sons would hear over and over and they both graduated from DLU. One went on to get an MBA from Vanderbilt, but "Christian College First".
God Bless, Bob
So I didn’t go to the campus directly, I went to the house where not only was I moving in, my sister and her husband were moving in also.
It was the beautiful fall of 1962, and John F. Kennedy was president. He had just affirmed to the world that America would put a man on the moon by the end of that decade and Fidel Castro had begun to make deals with the Soviet Union that the world was finding increasingly uncomfortable. Not to be outdone by Fats Domino, an artist by the name of Chubby Checker had introduced a song called “The Twist” and everybody was doing the dance it suggested. Tony Bennett was riding the top of the charts with “I left my heart in San Francisco” and Bobby Vinton was telling the world that “Roses are Red my love.” The Contours were asking,”Do You Love Me?” and Ray Charles was answering with, “I can’t stop loving you.” My personal favorites were “The Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler and “The Wanderer” by Dion. As I left Carthage, striking out into the world on the new adventure of college, I could indeed picture myself as “The Wanderer.” I suppose it escaped me that I was going to a Christian College with copious rules, to be living with my big sister, her husband and new baby, Jeff. Somewhat limited freedom by today’s standards.
It was not until the next day after move in that I took the first tentative walk over to the campus and discovered that my walk to school was to be some mile and one half each day. But, I was used to walking, had no car nor any hopes of getting one, besides, freshmen were not allowed cars in those days anyway. The first trip was just a recon to see who might be moving in and discover if there were any friendly faces in the crowd. There were plenty of friendly faces, but all of them were strangers looking for some other friendly face, just as was I.
It was not until the next day I began to make some acquaintances in earnest, having discovered that the walk home from campus after dark was very long, especially it rain was falling. Things were beginning to build to the school year in earnest by Tuesday evening and it was then that I discovered that my cousin Morris Mabry had come to school early to “check out the freshman talent,” in his words. He greeted me with the news that Jan Lafever, a mutual friend from Detroit, eventually to be know as the brown eyed girl, had decided to come to Lipscomb as a freshman and was indeed in that very Student Center.
By Thursday of freshman week various upperclassmen were beginning to show up providing familiar faces, and the “Faculty Fireside” that night followed the “Freshman Mixer” earlier in the evening in which we played various renamed versions of hide and seek and red rover. And yes, Red Rover by any other name is just as juvenile. On Friday the freshmen were taken to Percy Warner Park and various games were the order of the day. I passed the girls softball and noted with some surprise that the brown eyed girl was pitching for the home team, or was it the other team, I forget. She didn't seem like the pitcher type, but I was to learn that she was much more rugged than she appeared.
By the weekend, the real college students had all arrived and the campus was jumping and I loved it, I loved every bit of it, because I had never been away from home before, and never been with so many young people who did not already have you pegged into that old high school pigeon hole. All things were new and you were able to get a fresh start. I didn’t join the band, much to everyone’s surprise, but became friends with folks who were in class and with the guys with whom my cousin was running around. I soon didn’t even mind the walk since it gave me time to think and smoke, a nasty habit I had acquired in high school, could not pursue on campus, and would not give up for another ten years or so.. As for the brown eyed girl, she and I were “just friends” and might end up hanging out together on campus, or going with a group somewhere, but she was clearly uninterested in any romantic involvement, with anyone - probably most especially me.
Faculty Fireside was quite an experience since a number of us ended up “left over” and were caught going to the Home Economics, Home Management House to spend fireside with Miss Margret Carter. It was raining a slow drizzle outside and since none of us had a car, we ended up walking in the steady rain. The brown eyed girl was also in that group of leftovers and had on a pair of red flat shoes, which were ruined by the time we got to our destination. That was the first time I noticed her affinity for red shoes. In don’t think since that time she has been without a pair of red shoes, which she claims brightens you day if you are feeling blue.
The following week we all settled into classes and I learned that the competitive field at David Lipscomb College was somewhat more challenging than Smith County High School. Everything was graded on a strict curve, particularly in the freshman year which meant that 20 – 25 percent of the students in a given class were likely to receive a D or an F in that class. Lipscomb had an open enrollment policy which meant anyone could apply and enter, but in your first sessions students were invited to look to their right and their left and note that one of the three of you would not survive beyond the first quarter, and that two of the three of you would not return the following year. I didn’t know if my goose was cooked, but I knew it was pretty warm.
Now that I look back I find myself glad that God does not grade on a curve. With Him we are judged not by the performance or spirituality of others, but by his own standard, highly tempered with Grace and Mercy. And He allows us a fresh start, to escape the pigeonhole into which we have placed ourselves. All things are new.
I survived the first quarter with only a D in Biology and survived the first year with only an additional D in Physics. No more Ds were in my future, thankfully. In spite of the hard work in front of me, it might have been one of the most exciting years of my life. It is a place that holds a special fondness in my heart. "Christian College First" was the phrase our two sons would hear over and over and they both graduated from DLU. One went on to get an MBA from Vanderbilt, but "Christian College First".
God Bless, Bob
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Remembering Earl Mabery
So….How do you spell Mabery? Apparently, any way you want to, since among my numerous friends and relatives with the last name Mabery, each of them seems to spell it differently. (Mayberry, Maberry, Mabery, Mabry…..)
Yesterday I learned that Earl Mabery, the big bother of my long time best friend, had succumbed to the ravages of a fast moving brain cancer. Scarcely two months ago, he had been alive and seemingly well and we were all planning a cruise to the Caribbean together next March. You see, not only was Earl a big brother to Richard, my best friend for some 40 years, he was my friend too. Richard, who passed away a few years back, had been the catalyst that brought Earl and his wife Gladys, into our lives, but it was Earl and Gladys themselves who drew us to them. They couldn’t do enough nice things for people.
After being buds at Lipscomb University, Richard and I were inducted into the U.S. Army on the same day, standing heels to toes in the line. Our service numbers were only one number apart and for the next two years we were never far apart either.
It was Earl who loaned Richard and me his brand new, green Ford Fairlane Convertible so the four of us, Jan, Sandy, Richard, and I could take a first trip to Florida before our induction date. I almost wrecked it on a north Georgia backroad.
It was Earl who drove us to the old Fort Street Train Station and then took the tearful wives home when we departed to Fort Knox for basic training. The brown eyed girl and Sandra, Richard’s wife, lived together much of the time we were gone, at least a portion of the time at the home of Richard and Earl’s parents who were two of the most unique and likable people one could ever know, but that is another whole story.
It was Earl who drove us at a highly illegal speed from Detroit Metro Airport to the Toledo Ohio airport when our flight had been canceled and we were in imminent danger of being AWOL within a few hours.
It was Earl and Gladys who prepared a going away party for us when we left and a welcome home party for us when we returned. It was at the welcome home party that Gladys gave me my most memorable haircut. I had gone by a barber shop near the GM Tech Center to get a trim after just arriving home from overseas and the barber either was drunk, or hated soldiers, (it was Vietnam and we were “baby killers”). I left the shop with a haircut that caused the brown eyed girl to gasp in horror when I picked her up from work. At the welcome home party that night, Gladys decided to remedy the haircut with a gadget she had purchased from K-Tel; she spread a towel around my neck and went to work. It was a little like eating chitterlings, the more she bit off and chewed the bigger the job got. When she was finally through, I can’t say I looked worse, since that was probably not possible, but I can say I am glad the GM was obligated to give me my job back.
After our discharge, we all lived in the little town of East Detroit, Michigan, which has now gone uptown and become East Point, Michigan, and Gladys and Earl were forever doing something nice for us. Gladys would call and ask Jan if she could keep the boys while Jan got her hair fixed of did some shopping, and Earl, who loved the water and outdoors, was always inviting us to the cottage they owned on Rondo Bay in Canada. There we boated, once even crossing Lake Erie and back, skated on the frozen canals in the winter, and dipped smelt and cooked them up right on the beach. Sandy Dean and Crystal, their older teenagers, provided handy and dependable baby sitters at a time when urban myth had babies being cooked in the microwave by a teenager high on LSD. Kim was a little young for babysitting duty but may have snuck in on the tail end of that experience. We were forever moving into and out of town with GM’s Relocation Services being our closest confidants, but when we came back to town Gladys and Earl were always there, always hospitable, and always fun.
In these later years since Richard’s passing, we have caught them annually at St. Augustine, where Sandra lives. They go down each year for a month or three and rent a place close to Sandra. We get down at the tail end of March when I no longer have to feed those big round rolls of hay to the cattle and we all catch up on kids, grandkids, and in their case, great grandkids. We tell old stories, walk on the beach, tell old stories, get coffee and doughnuts from Publix, tell old stories, and play trivia at the local bar and grille. We don’t win, but we like to play. Oh, and did I mention, we tell old stories.
It was always evident to me that Earl was Richard’s biggest hero, and to some degree probably mine also. He was able to argue without losing his temper, find a good thing in everyone, generous to a fault, had a big heart and a great sense of humor. He delighted in egging the girls on, a trait he gained from his father, and watching them rise to the bait.
He was interested in everything and as a resulting interesting at all times. Fun to be with and until the very end, never seemed to have a bad day, although I knew that he had suffered greatly with a neuralgia difficulty. An altogether pleasant fellow whom anyone would be happy to call their friend. Active to his last days, I can only be thankful he did not linger long in an invalid state; he would have wanted nothing to do with any such thing. I said earlier today when talking to my son on the phone, “Earl was a guy who always found the best in people.” He replied, “would that someone could say that about each of us when we are gone.”
Isn’t it just the most surprising thing when your offspring come up with such wise reflections? One day you turn around and life has passed and your children are making sage remarks.
Rest in Peace, Earl. Our Love, Buddy and Jan
Yesterday I learned that Earl Mabery, the big bother of my long time best friend, had succumbed to the ravages of a fast moving brain cancer. Scarcely two months ago, he had been alive and seemingly well and we were all planning a cruise to the Caribbean together next March. You see, not only was Earl a big brother to Richard, my best friend for some 40 years, he was my friend too. Richard, who passed away a few years back, had been the catalyst that brought Earl and his wife Gladys, into our lives, but it was Earl and Gladys themselves who drew us to them. They couldn’t do enough nice things for people.
After being buds at Lipscomb University, Richard and I were inducted into the U.S. Army on the same day, standing heels to toes in the line. Our service numbers were only one number apart and for the next two years we were never far apart either.
It was Earl who loaned Richard and me his brand new, green Ford Fairlane Convertible so the four of us, Jan, Sandy, Richard, and I could take a first trip to Florida before our induction date. I almost wrecked it on a north Georgia backroad.
It was Earl who drove us to the old Fort Street Train Station and then took the tearful wives home when we departed to Fort Knox for basic training. The brown eyed girl and Sandra, Richard’s wife, lived together much of the time we were gone, at least a portion of the time at the home of Richard and Earl’s parents who were two of the most unique and likable people one could ever know, but that is another whole story.
It was Earl who drove us at a highly illegal speed from Detroit Metro Airport to the Toledo Ohio airport when our flight had been canceled and we were in imminent danger of being AWOL within a few hours.
It was Earl and Gladys who prepared a going away party for us when we left and a welcome home party for us when we returned. It was at the welcome home party that Gladys gave me my most memorable haircut. I had gone by a barber shop near the GM Tech Center to get a trim after just arriving home from overseas and the barber either was drunk, or hated soldiers, (it was Vietnam and we were “baby killers”). I left the shop with a haircut that caused the brown eyed girl to gasp in horror when I picked her up from work. At the welcome home party that night, Gladys decided to remedy the haircut with a gadget she had purchased from K-Tel; she spread a towel around my neck and went to work. It was a little like eating chitterlings, the more she bit off and chewed the bigger the job got. When she was finally through, I can’t say I looked worse, since that was probably not possible, but I can say I am glad the GM was obligated to give me my job back.
After our discharge, we all lived in the little town of East Detroit, Michigan, which has now gone uptown and become East Point, Michigan, and Gladys and Earl were forever doing something nice for us. Gladys would call and ask Jan if she could keep the boys while Jan got her hair fixed of did some shopping, and Earl, who loved the water and outdoors, was always inviting us to the cottage they owned on Rondo Bay in Canada. There we boated, once even crossing Lake Erie and back, skated on the frozen canals in the winter, and dipped smelt and cooked them up right on the beach. Sandy Dean and Crystal, their older teenagers, provided handy and dependable baby sitters at a time when urban myth had babies being cooked in the microwave by a teenager high on LSD. Kim was a little young for babysitting duty but may have snuck in on the tail end of that experience. We were forever moving into and out of town with GM’s Relocation Services being our closest confidants, but when we came back to town Gladys and Earl were always there, always hospitable, and always fun.
In these later years since Richard’s passing, we have caught them annually at St. Augustine, where Sandra lives. They go down each year for a month or three and rent a place close to Sandra. We get down at the tail end of March when I no longer have to feed those big round rolls of hay to the cattle and we all catch up on kids, grandkids, and in their case, great grandkids. We tell old stories, walk on the beach, tell old stories, get coffee and doughnuts from Publix, tell old stories, and play trivia at the local bar and grille. We don’t win, but we like to play. Oh, and did I mention, we tell old stories.
It was always evident to me that Earl was Richard’s biggest hero, and to some degree probably mine also. He was able to argue without losing his temper, find a good thing in everyone, generous to a fault, had a big heart and a great sense of humor. He delighted in egging the girls on, a trait he gained from his father, and watching them rise to the bait.
He was interested in everything and as a resulting interesting at all times. Fun to be with and until the very end, never seemed to have a bad day, although I knew that he had suffered greatly with a neuralgia difficulty. An altogether pleasant fellow whom anyone would be happy to call their friend. Active to his last days, I can only be thankful he did not linger long in an invalid state; he would have wanted nothing to do with any such thing. I said earlier today when talking to my son on the phone, “Earl was a guy who always found the best in people.” He replied, “would that someone could say that about each of us when we are gone.”
Isn’t it just the most surprising thing when your offspring come up with such wise reflections? One day you turn around and life has passed and your children are making sage remarks.
Rest in Peace, Earl. Our Love, Buddy and Jan
Friday, July 9, 2010
Prologue for Pore Folks, Potlucks, and Parables
This is the prologue from my latest book, Pore Folks, Potlucks, and Parables. Let me know if you would like a signed and personalized copy. Bob
This Evolving World We Live In-----
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, things were very different than they are in this land in which you and I live, even if perchance your address has remained static. No one I knew could even pronounce Vietnam, nor did they know or care where it was, or who was in charge of it. Harry, Ike, and Jack were our presidents in these times and, unlike the land we now live in, we all wanted to believe that they were true, capable and cared about each of us.
We watched June Clever on TV and did not even question why she wore pearls around her neck, high heels on her feet, and an apron around her waist when Ward came home for dinner – we wanted to believe that world and wanted to be part of it. We watched Uncle Milty perform on the Texaco Hour, dressed in drag every week and did not question his sexual orientation; in fact we would have likely not known what that meant. Watching Red Skelton turn his hat upside down and be a little boy, or get dragged under the curtain every Sunday night never ceased to be funny. Some moms worked outside the home but most stayed home and took care of the kids.
We took our cars to filling stations with big porches for us to drive under and the man who ran it came out in a uniform and filled the tank, checked the oil and water, put air in the tires, and tore off some green stamps which you mother could trade for toasters, and electric skillets. Lots of mothers could not drive and no self respecting man would ride in a car with a woman driving – it was un-manly. A good sized house was 2000 square feet and often less, and a farm could be bought for 7 thousand dollars.
Rock and Roll was just hitting the radio, but Your Hit Parade was what everyone was watching on TV. No one thought Rock and Roll was here to stay, except the teenagers – Frank, Perry, Rosemary, and Dean were where it was at on the music scene, and the other was just a passing fad.
Words were used differently and a hoe was what you used to chop the garden, if you were gay you were only lively and happy, no one thought regular people would ever become dope eaters. Alternate lifestyles, live-ins, and Johnny has Two Mommies were meaningless phrases and most of us were without a clue concerning those things and wished to stay that way. People could be pro-choice and pro-life both then, they were not mutually exclusive term.
When I was growing up in Carthage we went to Prayer Meeting on Wednesday night. Bread came in two distinct groups, that which you made at home which included Corn Pone and Hoe Cakes or Biscuits and yeast rolls or you could eat Loaf bread from the store. We had Arsh (Irish)_ potatoes and sweet potatoes with dried beans – never white beans or great northerns. Adie made teacakes (cookies) every Saturday and we kept the milk cold in the frigidare. When we went to the store we had thing put in a poke, never a bag like now or a sack like up north. Old men wore shoes through the week, but slippers on Sunday. Everyone went to the grocery store to get food, and no one went to a Supermarket. On Halloween we had a punkin and pumpkin seemed pretentious. We got dog tired and my grandmother said you were bilious when your stomach hurt. The few cars that had turn signals we said to have blinkers and I suspect my grandchildren will never know what fender skirts were. Our fathers took a turn of corn to mill and our grandmothers kept flour in the flour barrel. When we were sick we went to the drug store and bought patent medicine.
In those days no one had ever heard of NASA, and the moon just might still be made of green cheese. Cars and homes didn’t have air conditioning and businesses that did advertized “Come inside it’s Cool” Pantyhose was not know as a single word, and women going into public barelegged was as unthinkable as a preacher wearing a Speedo in the pulpit. Church houses in the country did not have pews, they had benches, and a Sanctuary was a place birds were kept. No one had ministers, or pastors, but everyone had preachers and that was their main job description. Businesses had calculators and comptometers and Dell was a valley, Gateway was something you walked through, and Apple was something you ate. People dressed up to go to church and wore ties to go shopping downtown. Women wore white gloves on their hands and girdles on the rest of them.
Everyone read the comic strip every day, and almost everyone could tell you what Mutt and Jeff, Beetle Bailey, Snuffy Smith, and Dick Tracy was doing the day before. Sitting in the shade was a favorite pastime and no one ate Cantaloupe but everyone had Mush Mellon. You went down to the cellar to bring up a can of green beans you mother had canned last summer and out to the smokehouse to cut off a slice of middlin for breakfast. No one had bathrooms but everyone had a toilet and people burned their trash in the burn barrel in back of the house or threw it on the trash pile at the end of some country road.
Cokes were 6 cents and came out of a red and white box with water and ice inside and giant Baby Ruth Bars were a dime. If you picked up bottles from Co colas, you could get a penny for them from the store. Milk came in glass bottles, and freezers on the ice box were roughly the size of two shoe boxes, which was ok because not many frozen items were available at the store. People we knew didn’t eat in restaurants except when there was no other choice and they were called Cafes – unless of course it was an automat.
My mama and daddy were masters at finding lessons in everything in life and helping you understand why some things were a bad idea without ever forbidding you to take part in them, and understanding why others were wholesome and good, without ordering you to take them up. They taught in parables, I think it was not expressly to be like Jesus, I think it just happened. Perhaps that is why I have chosen this format for the book; it is Christ like by virtue of personal leaning rather than by intention.
Yep, lots of things have changed, since that land long ago and far away, but a few things remain the same. God still loves us and expects us to show our love for Him by the way we treat other people. We still have but one life to live, and only one shot at getting it right and living to the praise of his glory. (Eph. 1) While the world around evolves, almost daily, He remains a constant rock in a raging sea. I sincerely hope you enjoy these parables from daily life.
Bob
This Evolving World We Live In-----
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, things were very different than they are in this land in which you and I live, even if perchance your address has remained static. No one I knew could even pronounce Vietnam, nor did they know or care where it was, or who was in charge of it. Harry, Ike, and Jack were our presidents in these times and, unlike the land we now live in, we all wanted to believe that they were true, capable and cared about each of us.
We watched June Clever on TV and did not even question why she wore pearls around her neck, high heels on her feet, and an apron around her waist when Ward came home for dinner – we wanted to believe that world and wanted to be part of it. We watched Uncle Milty perform on the Texaco Hour, dressed in drag every week and did not question his sexual orientation; in fact we would have likely not known what that meant. Watching Red Skelton turn his hat upside down and be a little boy, or get dragged under the curtain every Sunday night never ceased to be funny. Some moms worked outside the home but most stayed home and took care of the kids.
We took our cars to filling stations with big porches for us to drive under and the man who ran it came out in a uniform and filled the tank, checked the oil and water, put air in the tires, and tore off some green stamps which you mother could trade for toasters, and electric skillets. Lots of mothers could not drive and no self respecting man would ride in a car with a woman driving – it was un-manly. A good sized house was 2000 square feet and often less, and a farm could be bought for 7 thousand dollars.
Rock and Roll was just hitting the radio, but Your Hit Parade was what everyone was watching on TV. No one thought Rock and Roll was here to stay, except the teenagers – Frank, Perry, Rosemary, and Dean were where it was at on the music scene, and the other was just a passing fad.
Words were used differently and a hoe was what you used to chop the garden, if you were gay you were only lively and happy, no one thought regular people would ever become dope eaters. Alternate lifestyles, live-ins, and Johnny has Two Mommies were meaningless phrases and most of us were without a clue concerning those things and wished to stay that way. People could be pro-choice and pro-life both then, they were not mutually exclusive term.
When I was growing up in Carthage we went to Prayer Meeting on Wednesday night. Bread came in two distinct groups, that which you made at home which included Corn Pone and Hoe Cakes or Biscuits and yeast rolls or you could eat Loaf bread from the store. We had Arsh (Irish)_ potatoes and sweet potatoes with dried beans – never white beans or great northerns. Adie made teacakes (cookies) every Saturday and we kept the milk cold in the frigidare. When we went to the store we had thing put in a poke, never a bag like now or a sack like up north. Old men wore shoes through the week, but slippers on Sunday. Everyone went to the grocery store to get food, and no one went to a Supermarket. On Halloween we had a punkin and pumpkin seemed pretentious. We got dog tired and my grandmother said you were bilious when your stomach hurt. The few cars that had turn signals we said to have blinkers and I suspect my grandchildren will never know what fender skirts were. Our fathers took a turn of corn to mill and our grandmothers kept flour in the flour barrel. When we were sick we went to the drug store and bought patent medicine.
In those days no one had ever heard of NASA, and the moon just might still be made of green cheese. Cars and homes didn’t have air conditioning and businesses that did advertized “Come inside it’s Cool” Pantyhose was not know as a single word, and women going into public barelegged was as unthinkable as a preacher wearing a Speedo in the pulpit. Church houses in the country did not have pews, they had benches, and a Sanctuary was a place birds were kept. No one had ministers, or pastors, but everyone had preachers and that was their main job description. Businesses had calculators and comptometers and Dell was a valley, Gateway was something you walked through, and Apple was something you ate. People dressed up to go to church and wore ties to go shopping downtown. Women wore white gloves on their hands and girdles on the rest of them.
Everyone read the comic strip every day, and almost everyone could tell you what Mutt and Jeff, Beetle Bailey, Snuffy Smith, and Dick Tracy was doing the day before. Sitting in the shade was a favorite pastime and no one ate Cantaloupe but everyone had Mush Mellon. You went down to the cellar to bring up a can of green beans you mother had canned last summer and out to the smokehouse to cut off a slice of middlin for breakfast. No one had bathrooms but everyone had a toilet and people burned their trash in the burn barrel in back of the house or threw it on the trash pile at the end of some country road.
Cokes were 6 cents and came out of a red and white box with water and ice inside and giant Baby Ruth Bars were a dime. If you picked up bottles from Co colas, you could get a penny for them from the store. Milk came in glass bottles, and freezers on the ice box were roughly the size of two shoe boxes, which was ok because not many frozen items were available at the store. People we knew didn’t eat in restaurants except when there was no other choice and they were called Cafes – unless of course it was an automat.
My mama and daddy were masters at finding lessons in everything in life and helping you understand why some things were a bad idea without ever forbidding you to take part in them, and understanding why others were wholesome and good, without ordering you to take them up. They taught in parables, I think it was not expressly to be like Jesus, I think it just happened. Perhaps that is why I have chosen this format for the book; it is Christ like by virtue of personal leaning rather than by intention.
Yep, lots of things have changed, since that land long ago and far away, but a few things remain the same. God still loves us and expects us to show our love for Him by the way we treat other people. We still have but one life to live, and only one shot at getting it right and living to the praise of his glory. (Eph. 1) While the world around evolves, almost daily, He remains a constant rock in a raging sea. I sincerely hope you enjoy these parables from daily life.
Bob
Monday, June 28, 2010
Seaking Northern as a Second Language
Northern as a Second Language---------------------------------------------------
I speak Northern as a second language; I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I was trying to make a living with General Motors and that required me to spend 35 years in the frozen north. Of course Southern is my native tongue, being born in Jackson County and raised in Smith County, and it comes to me as easy as a lie to a politician. But I read Jack McCall’s piece in the Carthage Courier about “Paying Attention,” and it reminded me to pay attention to the difference in the way we talk Down South and the way things are said up north.
Of course, it is more than just what you say, it is the way you say it and when it is said. For instance, those folks up north like to jump right into business and skip all of the “small talk,” as they call it. I was a face-to-face negotiator for a good part of my career with General Motors, and it would just drive the other side crazy when I wanted to ask about their daughters upcoming wedding, inquire after their granny, whom I had learned was in a nursing home, or tell a little story I had heard that might or might not relate to anything we were going to discuss when the negotiations had begun in earnest. After all, they had often flown in from New Jersey or Plano, TX or Palo Alto, California on the morning flight, or better yet the corporate jet, and felt they needed to get down to business in the first three minutes. Not me, I had learned in the South that it is hard to be nasty to someone who had just inquired about your little boys tonsillectomy, and opined that, “well, kids get through these things, but I sure hope the little fellow will feel better tomorrow. You be sure and let me know.” That kind of conversation is hard to follow-up with red faced yelling and cuss words.
My cousin Marva and I were talking about how much difficulty the folks around Franklin, Spring Hill, and Columbia had adjusting to the brusque manner of the northerners who moved down to work at the Tennessee Saturn facility. Those folks wanted to get right down to business while the southern folks were still wanting to find out how they slept last night, and whether they thought the weather would change or not. It was something of a culture clash for the first few years.
The Northern language is dry, as dry as a bone in the desert, while Down South we try to spice it up with a simile whenever possible. I personally was known for the use of barnyard animals in speech.
“Negotiating with you folks, is like trying to teach a pig to whistle – it don’t accomplish a thing, and it just irritates the pig.”
“Negotiating with this company is like wresting with a pig – you both get nasty, but the pig likes it.”
“What is this, some kind of Goat Rodeo?”
“I’m going to work this bunch like a rented mule.”
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him take a bath.”
I once was in negotiations with a company in Short Hills, NJ and a great deal of the work was done by conference phone. The leader of the opposing team later told me that they kept a whiteboard in the room for the sole purpose of noting the barnyard animal similes and analogies I used each day.
A Jewish lawyer from Washington D.C. who sometimes supported my side of negotiations, called me a few years after I had retired and told me he had tried to memorize a lot of my saying and use them himself. “It was going pretty good too,” he said, “until I came to the term Goat Rodeo. I lost them there and someone wanted an explanation and I had nothing.” It is one of those sayings that is best delivered with a Southern accent, I guess.
Well, those fellows from New York and New Jersey are pretty slick, “as slick as a puppy’s navel,” my daddy would say, so I figured that it was just fair play to put them a little off guard with a little Southern speak. One of my friends told me when I retired that when I ever started out a sentence with, “Now I’m just a farm boy from Middle Tennessee….;” that everyone in the room automatically put their hand on their wallet. (By the way – that’s Northern for billfold.) Speaking of which, takes me to the next segment of Northern as a second language.
Down South, we go to the grocery store, nearly have a wreck, push the buggy through the store we trade at, have the groceries put in a bag (or poke) and the boy wheels them out to the car for us.
Up North, they drive to the supermarket, narrowly avoiding an accident, push the shopping cart through the store where they shop, have the groceries put in a sack and wheel them out to their vehicle themselves.
We say you all (pronounced Y’all) – they say “you guys.”
We say “ya hear” – they say “huh, or eh.”
We say creek – they say crick, we say aunt (like the bug) – they say aunt (rhymes with want); we say caught (kawt) – they say caught (cot); we have yard sales (focus on where the sale is) – they have rummage sales (focus on what is being sold); we catch crawfish – they eat crayfish.
We drink coke or co cola (no matter that it is orange or grape) – and they drink pop (unless you are from down east and then it is soda) And not one of my Northern friends would even know what a Yoo-hoo is
We travel on interstates – and up north one drives on the freeway. The night before Halloween is Devil’s Night up north and down South it is “the night before Halloween.” By the way, we carve punkins into Jack-o-lanterns and wear false faces; but they use pumpkins that look just like a punkin and wear masks.
Up north if someone were to say “bless her heart” it would mean they are thinking kind thoughts about her, down South it means what the person who says that is thinking is too awful to repeat in polite company. Some Southern words do not translate directly into Northern lingo. For instance, cattywampus, skygogling, whamperjawed, thingamadiger, doohickey, whatchamacallit; and other like, perfectly good but made up words. Other words, like booger means one thing down South but that same thing is called boogie up North. Boogie Man or Booger Man, you decide.
Down South people have conniptions, and pitch hissy fits, while up north they only “have a hemorrhage” when things go wrong. Up North, all of us are considered “crackers,” “briars,” or “hillbillies”, down South we know that a cracker is from “Jawja,” a briar is what blackberry cobbler comes from, and the hillbillies are on TV.
Down south we also like to run words together into a single syllable or to break words into as many syllables as possible. Like “Momenems”. Used in a sentence it would be “After this thing is over we’er going over to Momenems to get something to eat.” Or words which take on their own meaning like “Laisleb” which is a short form of “Well I will be”; or adding syllable as in Mis-ris, for Mrs or Jewl-er-ry for jewelry.
In the Movie “I Remember Mama” Uncle Kris tells his sick and suffering young nephew that he needs a swear word to use when the pain comes but that he must not use one in English, since people will be offended, rather he teaches the boy a swear word in Swedish – whether actually a swear word or not the audience is left to wonder. Southerners are particularly adept at using “light” swear words, For instance, my mother-in-law’s swear word was “well foot.” When she was disappointed, up-set, or surprised, she said, “well foot.” Dang, dog gone, dern it, Goodness Gracious, Gracious Me, well I’ll be _____, dag nab it, this blamed thing, are all euphoniums used by Southerners for swear words – Northerners are generally more direct.
While I noticed a sizeable erosion in the Southern tongue during my 35 years in the North, primarily I suppose, as a result of the man on the six o’clock news, there is still a big difference. As I often told my friends at work, “Yawl talk at 45 and I listen at 33 1/3 – but now no one under 35 would even understand that term anymore. I only know that when I got south of the Ohio River my tongue relaxed.
I never made a conscious effort to lose my Southern accent, since in a company as large as GM being remembered, even for your accent, was a good thing. I remember once being sent to a large meeting at the GM Technical Center in Warren, MI where 22,000 people worked. I was to make a presentation to a group of executives. When I arrived back at the plant, my boss called me in the office chuckling. “Well,” he said, “you made an impression, the Assistant Comptroller called to complement “that guy” who made the presentation. When I asked him, what guy, he replied, “the one who talks like Catfish Hunter.”
I suppose it doesn’t matter whether our speech is Northern or Southern but I do wish it was a little more sprinkled with civility. That we were more careful about the use of our Creators name in vain, that we were a little more polite and kind to one another, that we were less quick to be blunt and hurtful in our comments.
The Apostle Paul admonished us to speak the truth in love, but my granny just said, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.” Let’s look for those “apples of gold in pitchers of silver.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
I speak Northern as a second language; I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I was trying to make a living with General Motors and that required me to spend 35 years in the frozen north. Of course Southern is my native tongue, being born in Jackson County and raised in Smith County, and it comes to me as easy as a lie to a politician. But I read Jack McCall’s piece in the Carthage Courier about “Paying Attention,” and it reminded me to pay attention to the difference in the way we talk Down South and the way things are said up north.
Of course, it is more than just what you say, it is the way you say it and when it is said. For instance, those folks up north like to jump right into business and skip all of the “small talk,” as they call it. I was a face-to-face negotiator for a good part of my career with General Motors, and it would just drive the other side crazy when I wanted to ask about their daughters upcoming wedding, inquire after their granny, whom I had learned was in a nursing home, or tell a little story I had heard that might or might not relate to anything we were going to discuss when the negotiations had begun in earnest. After all, they had often flown in from New Jersey or Plano, TX or Palo Alto, California on the morning flight, or better yet the corporate jet, and felt they needed to get down to business in the first three minutes. Not me, I had learned in the South that it is hard to be nasty to someone who had just inquired about your little boys tonsillectomy, and opined that, “well, kids get through these things, but I sure hope the little fellow will feel better tomorrow. You be sure and let me know.” That kind of conversation is hard to follow-up with red faced yelling and cuss words.
My cousin Marva and I were talking about how much difficulty the folks around Franklin, Spring Hill, and Columbia had adjusting to the brusque manner of the northerners who moved down to work at the Tennessee Saturn facility. Those folks wanted to get right down to business while the southern folks were still wanting to find out how they slept last night, and whether they thought the weather would change or not. It was something of a culture clash for the first few years.
The Northern language is dry, as dry as a bone in the desert, while Down South we try to spice it up with a simile whenever possible. I personally was known for the use of barnyard animals in speech.
“Negotiating with you folks, is like trying to teach a pig to whistle – it don’t accomplish a thing, and it just irritates the pig.”
“Negotiating with this company is like wresting with a pig – you both get nasty, but the pig likes it.”
“What is this, some kind of Goat Rodeo?”
“I’m going to work this bunch like a rented mule.”
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him take a bath.”
I once was in negotiations with a company in Short Hills, NJ and a great deal of the work was done by conference phone. The leader of the opposing team later told me that they kept a whiteboard in the room for the sole purpose of noting the barnyard animal similes and analogies I used each day.
A Jewish lawyer from Washington D.C. who sometimes supported my side of negotiations, called me a few years after I had retired and told me he had tried to memorize a lot of my saying and use them himself. “It was going pretty good too,” he said, “until I came to the term Goat Rodeo. I lost them there and someone wanted an explanation and I had nothing.” It is one of those sayings that is best delivered with a Southern accent, I guess.
Well, those fellows from New York and New Jersey are pretty slick, “as slick as a puppy’s navel,” my daddy would say, so I figured that it was just fair play to put them a little off guard with a little Southern speak. One of my friends told me when I retired that when I ever started out a sentence with, “Now I’m just a farm boy from Middle Tennessee….;” that everyone in the room automatically put their hand on their wallet. (By the way – that’s Northern for billfold.) Speaking of which, takes me to the next segment of Northern as a second language.
Down South, we go to the grocery store, nearly have a wreck, push the buggy through the store we trade at, have the groceries put in a bag (or poke) and the boy wheels them out to the car for us.
Up North, they drive to the supermarket, narrowly avoiding an accident, push the shopping cart through the store where they shop, have the groceries put in a sack and wheel them out to their vehicle themselves.
We say you all (pronounced Y’all) – they say “you guys.”
We say “ya hear” – they say “huh, or eh.”
We say creek – they say crick, we say aunt (like the bug) – they say aunt (rhymes with want); we say caught (kawt) – they say caught (cot); we have yard sales (focus on where the sale is) – they have rummage sales (focus on what is being sold); we catch crawfish – they eat crayfish.
We drink coke or co cola (no matter that it is orange or grape) – and they drink pop (unless you are from down east and then it is soda) And not one of my Northern friends would even know what a Yoo-hoo is
We travel on interstates – and up north one drives on the freeway. The night before Halloween is Devil’s Night up north and down South it is “the night before Halloween.” By the way, we carve punkins into Jack-o-lanterns and wear false faces; but they use pumpkins that look just like a punkin and wear masks.
Up north if someone were to say “bless her heart” it would mean they are thinking kind thoughts about her, down South it means what the person who says that is thinking is too awful to repeat in polite company. Some Southern words do not translate directly into Northern lingo. For instance, cattywampus, skygogling, whamperjawed, thingamadiger, doohickey, whatchamacallit; and other like, perfectly good but made up words. Other words, like booger means one thing down South but that same thing is called boogie up North. Boogie Man or Booger Man, you decide.
Down South people have conniptions, and pitch hissy fits, while up north they only “have a hemorrhage” when things go wrong. Up North, all of us are considered “crackers,” “briars,” or “hillbillies”, down South we know that a cracker is from “Jawja,” a briar is what blackberry cobbler comes from, and the hillbillies are on TV.
Down south we also like to run words together into a single syllable or to break words into as many syllables as possible. Like “Momenems”. Used in a sentence it would be “After this thing is over we’er going over to Momenems to get something to eat.” Or words which take on their own meaning like “Laisleb” which is a short form of “Well I will be”; or adding syllable as in Mis-ris, for Mrs or Jewl-er-ry for jewelry.
In the Movie “I Remember Mama” Uncle Kris tells his sick and suffering young nephew that he needs a swear word to use when the pain comes but that he must not use one in English, since people will be offended, rather he teaches the boy a swear word in Swedish – whether actually a swear word or not the audience is left to wonder. Southerners are particularly adept at using “light” swear words, For instance, my mother-in-law’s swear word was “well foot.” When she was disappointed, up-set, or surprised, she said, “well foot.” Dang, dog gone, dern it, Goodness Gracious, Gracious Me, well I’ll be _____, dag nab it, this blamed thing, are all euphoniums used by Southerners for swear words – Northerners are generally more direct.
While I noticed a sizeable erosion in the Southern tongue during my 35 years in the North, primarily I suppose, as a result of the man on the six o’clock news, there is still a big difference. As I often told my friends at work, “Yawl talk at 45 and I listen at 33 1/3 – but now no one under 35 would even understand that term anymore. I only know that when I got south of the Ohio River my tongue relaxed.
I never made a conscious effort to lose my Southern accent, since in a company as large as GM being remembered, even for your accent, was a good thing. I remember once being sent to a large meeting at the GM Technical Center in Warren, MI where 22,000 people worked. I was to make a presentation to a group of executives. When I arrived back at the plant, my boss called me in the office chuckling. “Well,” he said, “you made an impression, the Assistant Comptroller called to complement “that guy” who made the presentation. When I asked him, what guy, he replied, “the one who talks like Catfish Hunter.”
I suppose it doesn’t matter whether our speech is Northern or Southern but I do wish it was a little more sprinkled with civility. That we were more careful about the use of our Creators name in vain, that we were a little more polite and kind to one another, that we were less quick to be blunt and hurtful in our comments.
The Apostle Paul admonished us to speak the truth in love, but my granny just said, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.” Let’s look for those “apples of gold in pitchers of silver.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Signs and Wonders
Signs and Wonders.------------------------------------------------
I passed the Rome church of Christ today and noticed the sign said, “Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.” I thought the sign was pretty appropriate as a punctuation mark to the conversation the brown eyed girl and I had been having for the previous couple of miles. She had noted that in nearly every yard, there was a motorcycle, a bass boat with a huge motor on the back, or a Skidoo of some description or another.
A couple of days ago a young fellow had passed us on I 40 as if we were sitting still. We were going near 70 mph so he must have been exceeding 85 or 90. The scary part was that he was on a motorcycle, It was one of those Japanese racing models that sounds as if a couple of brigades of soldiers were in a chainsaw fight. One loose pebble on the road and that young man would have been standing face to face with Saint Peter, or at lease face to face with someone.
I assume that part if it is that I am getting older. but there seems to be an obsession with speed and danger these days. Everyone wants the fastest boat, the highest roller coaster, the steepest rock climb, the most powerful motorcycle, the most dangerous bungee jump (which is just about any bungee jump, in my opinion). They want to live on the edge, experience danger close=up, get the newest adrenaline high.
It has always been my theory that man is put onto this earth with a big God shaped hole in him, and until he fills himself with God, he feels empty and incomplete. So you can dance as fast as you can, drink as much as you can, live on the edge with motorcycles, skidoos, bungee jumps, and roller coasters, but until the God shaped hole is filled, one still feels empty and incomplete. You can buy the most expensive homes and cars, take the most exotic vacations, wear $400.00 designer jeans and snake skin boots, but none of these will fill the hole. Only the God of the Universe fits in this hole and nothing else will plug the leak that leaves one feeling empty and alone.
Now a lot of times when I read those church marquees it is truly a matter of Signs and Wonders. I Wonder why they think that Sign is cleaver. But the sign at Rome today, well, it just hit the sweet spot.
“Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.”
Have a blessed day and visit us at the Maple Hill church of Christ. Bob
I passed the Rome church of Christ today and noticed the sign said, “Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.” I thought the sign was pretty appropriate as a punctuation mark to the conversation the brown eyed girl and I had been having for the previous couple of miles. She had noted that in nearly every yard, there was a motorcycle, a bass boat with a huge motor on the back, or a Skidoo of some description or another.
A couple of days ago a young fellow had passed us on I 40 as if we were sitting still. We were going near 70 mph so he must have been exceeding 85 or 90. The scary part was that he was on a motorcycle, It was one of those Japanese racing models that sounds as if a couple of brigades of soldiers were in a chainsaw fight. One loose pebble on the road and that young man would have been standing face to face with Saint Peter, or at lease face to face with someone.
I assume that part if it is that I am getting older. but there seems to be an obsession with speed and danger these days. Everyone wants the fastest boat, the highest roller coaster, the steepest rock climb, the most powerful motorcycle, the most dangerous bungee jump (which is just about any bungee jump, in my opinion). They want to live on the edge, experience danger close=up, get the newest adrenaline high.
It has always been my theory that man is put onto this earth with a big God shaped hole in him, and until he fills himself with God, he feels empty and incomplete. So you can dance as fast as you can, drink as much as you can, live on the edge with motorcycles, skidoos, bungee jumps, and roller coasters, but until the God shaped hole is filled, one still feels empty and incomplete. You can buy the most expensive homes and cars, take the most exotic vacations, wear $400.00 designer jeans and snake skin boots, but none of these will fill the hole. Only the God of the Universe fits in this hole and nothing else will plug the leak that leaves one feeling empty and alone.
Now a lot of times when I read those church marquees it is truly a matter of Signs and Wonders. I Wonder why they think that Sign is cleaver. But the sign at Rome today, well, it just hit the sweet spot.
“Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.”
Have a blessed day and visit us at the Maple Hill church of Christ. Bob
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Little things really do mean a lot.
Ground hogs and Grits--------------------------------
There are some things in the world which I feel are highly underrated; things that should be held in high esteem but through ignorance and apathy are misunderstood and ignored.
One example is the ground hog, also known as the wood chuck or the whistle pig, depending on where in the United States you are calling one. The ground hog is, after all, the only animal that has a day named after him on your calendar. As highly regarded as the dog and cat are there is no dog day or cat day on you calendar. Oh, we refer to the “dog days of summer” but that is simply an expression, and holds no sway on the official calendar. But check February 2nd and there it is; the whistle pig’s very own day.
It’s not surprising when you think about all the things the little fellow can do. He makes a pretty good dish, baked up with sweet potatoes on each side of him, and that ground hog hide makes the best shoe laces you ever tied in your life. He is a weather forecaster, a hole digger, and is as clean as a whistle, why he eats only the best grass and corn from your patch. He even has a song about him;
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Ground hog grease all over her chin.
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Oh my, ain’t a Ground Hog stout.
Grits, well there is just no end to the usefulness of that commodity and most Yankees I met up north didn’t have a clue what they were all about.
The fact is though, that grits are the most useful in the North, not the South at all. It was a real good thing to carry a big sack in the back of your car. Not only did they add weight to the back end (of the car) to keep you from sliding around on all that snow and Ice, if you really got stuck, you could open that sack, sprinkle some on the ground in front of your tire and they acted just like sand, giving you enough traction to get out of that hole. Grits also make a great cleanser for your hands when the Lava Soap is all gone. If you had oil and grease on you hands from working on the tractor, Mama would just pour some grits in your hands, all lathered up with regular soap, and those hands would soon be pink and shiny.
Not only did the Yankees not have any clue about the many uses of grits they had no idea how to eat them. They thought they were cream of wheat or something. They would sprinkle sugar on them, pour milk over them, and then complain because they didn’t taste good. Well, I guess not, everybody knows grits are eaten hot, with a ¼ inch pat of butter in the middle and a little salt and pepper on the top. It doesn’t hurt if there is a little red eye gravy to drizzle on top either.
Ground hogs and grits are just a couple of those little things of which people overlook the value; and that is the real point of this story. (You knew there would be one, didn’t you?) It is the everyday things that we come to take for granted that make our life the color, taste, and flavor that it is. It is these small things, like rainbows from angry skies, butterflies that light on, and light up, our flowers, and red birds that sit in our Crape Myrtle and look smack in the bay window at us, for which we ought to remember to give God thanks. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to mention groundhogs and grits now and then either.
Have a blessed day, Bob
There are some things in the world which I feel are highly underrated; things that should be held in high esteem but through ignorance and apathy are misunderstood and ignored.
One example is the ground hog, also known as the wood chuck or the whistle pig, depending on where in the United States you are calling one. The ground hog is, after all, the only animal that has a day named after him on your calendar. As highly regarded as the dog and cat are there is no dog day or cat day on you calendar. Oh, we refer to the “dog days of summer” but that is simply an expression, and holds no sway on the official calendar. But check February 2nd and there it is; the whistle pig’s very own day.
It’s not surprising when you think about all the things the little fellow can do. He makes a pretty good dish, baked up with sweet potatoes on each side of him, and that ground hog hide makes the best shoe laces you ever tied in your life. He is a weather forecaster, a hole digger, and is as clean as a whistle, why he eats only the best grass and corn from your patch. He even has a song about him;
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Ground hog grease all over her chin.
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Oh my, ain’t a Ground Hog stout.
Grits, well there is just no end to the usefulness of that commodity and most Yankees I met up north didn’t have a clue what they were all about.
The fact is though, that grits are the most useful in the North, not the South at all. It was a real good thing to carry a big sack in the back of your car. Not only did they add weight to the back end (of the car) to keep you from sliding around on all that snow and Ice, if you really got stuck, you could open that sack, sprinkle some on the ground in front of your tire and they acted just like sand, giving you enough traction to get out of that hole. Grits also make a great cleanser for your hands when the Lava Soap is all gone. If you had oil and grease on you hands from working on the tractor, Mama would just pour some grits in your hands, all lathered up with regular soap, and those hands would soon be pink and shiny.
Not only did the Yankees not have any clue about the many uses of grits they had no idea how to eat them. They thought they were cream of wheat or something. They would sprinkle sugar on them, pour milk over them, and then complain because they didn’t taste good. Well, I guess not, everybody knows grits are eaten hot, with a ¼ inch pat of butter in the middle and a little salt and pepper on the top. It doesn’t hurt if there is a little red eye gravy to drizzle on top either.
Ground hogs and grits are just a couple of those little things of which people overlook the value; and that is the real point of this story. (You knew there would be one, didn’t you?) It is the everyday things that we come to take for granted that make our life the color, taste, and flavor that it is. It is these small things, like rainbows from angry skies, butterflies that light on, and light up, our flowers, and red birds that sit in our Crape Myrtle and look smack in the bay window at us, for which we ought to remember to give God thanks. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to mention groundhogs and grits now and then either.
Have a blessed day, Bob
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Unto the Least of These
The Least of These------------------------------------------------------------------
The brown eyed girl and I decided to get away for a couple of days and ended up at the Smokey Mountains. After a ride in the mountains, we stopped at Taco Bell and promised to do better at dinner time. We had been riding along discussing spiritual things since she had been reading “Who is My Brother” by Lagard Smith. When I stopped at Taco Bell, we were in the middle of a spirited theological discussion and I jumped out of the van suggesting that she, “hold that thought and I will be right back.”
Standing in line waiting to order my Burrito Supreme, I noticed a fairly nice looking young man, plainly dressed and wearing a backpack approach the manager and announce in a heavy accent that seemed to be from a former Soviet Block country, “I am looking for a job, do you have any openings?” The manager explained that they were taking applications, but not hiring at that time. The young man took the application and noted that he did not currently have an address that he could put down. The manager replied that this would be ok but that he would need a phone number, to which the young man quietly replied, “I haff no phone.” “I sorry,” the manager said in a seemingly sincere way, “but without an address or phone number, I cannot take your application.”
The young man nodded, then ask if he could bother the manager for a cup of water. The manager smiled, drew a cup of water and handed to the wanderer who walked near the door and slowly drank the cold water. My mind was racing checking to see how much cash I had in my pocket, when the lady in front of me in line walked to the young man and handed him a ten dollar bill, saying, “Here, I want you to have this.”
“Why do you do this for me?” the young man asked with a genuinely puzzled look on his face. “I just want you to have it,” she replied quietly. He lowered his head, nodded slightly and folded the bill and stuck it into the pocket of his rolled up jeans. She smiled back, and walked out the door, got in her car and drove away. He also immediately exited and rode away on his bike, pack still on his back.
When the brown eyed girl and I drove past a nearby Kroger Store, the young man was looking at a large sign that said, “NOW HIRING.” I pray that his luck was better than at the Taco Bell.
Somehow the theological conversation we were engaged in, now seemed much less important than before and we simply sat quietly as I shared the story with my bride.
Matthew 25: 34-40 34"Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'
37"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'
40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
Seeing the precepts of The King put in action is a humbling experience.
Visit us at Maple Hill, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN as we learn together to be children of the King. Bob
The brown eyed girl and I decided to get away for a couple of days and ended up at the Smokey Mountains. After a ride in the mountains, we stopped at Taco Bell and promised to do better at dinner time. We had been riding along discussing spiritual things since she had been reading “Who is My Brother” by Lagard Smith. When I stopped at Taco Bell, we were in the middle of a spirited theological discussion and I jumped out of the van suggesting that she, “hold that thought and I will be right back.”
Standing in line waiting to order my Burrito Supreme, I noticed a fairly nice looking young man, plainly dressed and wearing a backpack approach the manager and announce in a heavy accent that seemed to be from a former Soviet Block country, “I am looking for a job, do you have any openings?” The manager explained that they were taking applications, but not hiring at that time. The young man took the application and noted that he did not currently have an address that he could put down. The manager replied that this would be ok but that he would need a phone number, to which the young man quietly replied, “I haff no phone.” “I sorry,” the manager said in a seemingly sincere way, “but without an address or phone number, I cannot take your application.”
The young man nodded, then ask if he could bother the manager for a cup of water. The manager smiled, drew a cup of water and handed to the wanderer who walked near the door and slowly drank the cold water. My mind was racing checking to see how much cash I had in my pocket, when the lady in front of me in line walked to the young man and handed him a ten dollar bill, saying, “Here, I want you to have this.”
“Why do you do this for me?” the young man asked with a genuinely puzzled look on his face. “I just want you to have it,” she replied quietly. He lowered his head, nodded slightly and folded the bill and stuck it into the pocket of his rolled up jeans. She smiled back, and walked out the door, got in her car and drove away. He also immediately exited and rode away on his bike, pack still on his back.
When the brown eyed girl and I drove past a nearby Kroger Store, the young man was looking at a large sign that said, “NOW HIRING.” I pray that his luck was better than at the Taco Bell.
Somehow the theological conversation we were engaged in, now seemed much less important than before and we simply sat quietly as I shared the story with my bride.
Matthew 25: 34-40 34"Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'
37"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'
40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
Seeing the precepts of The King put in action is a humbling experience.
Visit us at Maple Hill, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN as we learn together to be children of the King. Bob
Monday, May 31, 2010
Call Me Johnny Boy from Pore Folks, Potlucks and Parables
71. Call Me Johnny Boy------------------------------------------
Call Me Johnny Boy was written for a Veteran's Day Program at Maple Hill Church of Christ, 2008.
You know me, I first made my appearance at the Battle of Lexington and Concord in 1775 and they called us the minutemen. It took a few years to wrap up that little scuffle with King George’s regulars - them in their shinny red coats, but we kept at it and had that job wrapped up by 1782 – a free country at last – or so we thought.
But those pesky Brits popped back up again in 1812, and we had to convince them all over again that we weren’t joking – All men had indeed been created equal and these United States are and of rights ought to be free and independent States.
Then there was that little misunderstanding with Mexico concerning Texas in 1846, and we demonstrated to our neighbors down south that the lone star really was going to be “one among many” other stars, on that field of blue on the old Stars and Stripes. We do like to do a job up right though, and we ended up not only with Texas, but with California and the whole southwest thrown in for good measure.
Our next job came in 1861 and it might have been the saddest and hardest of all. They called us Johnny Reb or Billy Yank, and we had to fight brother against brother and brave men on both sides sacrificed and died for hearth and home. Five Aprils that job dragged on – from 1861 to 1865 and no war has ever been more costly. The first battle was just off Charleston Harbor at a place called Fort Sumter and the Last one – Well, it was right here, over in Nashville.
Some say that as many as 700,000 of us didn’t come home from that one and a lot of those that did would never be the same. But the Union – it lived on.
For our next little frickkas they hung the name of Rough Riders on us and we sailed off to Cuba in 1898 with old Teddy Roosevelt himself. It wasn’t much of a war unless you were one of he ones there. But to the soldiers who are there, every war is the biggest war – the only war – To them it was the war in which they gave the last full measure of their devotion.
By 1917, we were called on to go help our friends in Europe as German aggression threatened freedom all around this old world. Doughboys – that’s what they called us for this one, and we fought and suffered in a whole new way as our enemies gassed us in the mud filled trenches where we huddled. Between the Hun’s 88s, the wretched trenches, and the Spanish flu – we suffered terribly, but we Yanks went over the top on command. We didn’t start it, but we sure ended it, and by 1918 it was over, over there. In fact it was over 90 years ago this very day. On the eleventh month, the eleventh day, and at the eleventh hour, those big guns stopped, there was silence, and a new wreath of freedom was laid at the feet of the Statue of Liberty.
That last one had been the war to end all wars, the Great War, we called it, but Hitler and His Nazi cronies didn’t play by our rules and by 1941 we were called on again. This time the Japanese had attacked our fleet in Pearl. Dog Faces, Leathernecks, fly boys and swabbies, we were, and we were on the move around the globe. On Normandy Beach, and on the sands of Iwo Jima; we fought for the things we held dear, and for the loved ones we left back home. Finally it was over when President Truman dropped the big one and convinced Emperor Hiro Hito to stand down..
In 1950 we had a little job over in places like Wiejombu, Pusan, and at the Chosan Resovior, and even though thousands of us never came home – the politicians didn’t want to call it a war, so they said it was a police action. 169 Thousand Casualties – some police action.
In 1962 we got involved in a little country in Southeast Asia none of us had ever heard of, and most of us couldn’t pronounce – Vietnam they called it – that one was the big winner as far as time goes because it drug on for 13 years. We didn’t have any pet names for that one – in fact most people stateside didn’t seem to like us for the job we had to do. But like always, we just went and did what we had to do, then came home and quietly went back to work in the world – just thankful we were not one of the 58,000 that got shipped home in a bag.
Now we have a whole new part of the world to worry about – a place called Iraq and we are in the middle of our second war, where sunglasses and desert battle fatigues are the uniform of the day. Oh, and by the way there is a little side job in Afghanistan thrown in just for good measure. I guess we don’t have all of the outcome pegged on this one yet, but we have always done the job before – even when the politicians didn’t exactly cooperate. You see, a soldier’s job has never been to consider the politics of the matter, just to do what we were sent to do, and let the politicians, the professors and the civilians ponder the right of it.
We are American soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines, and we have fought, suffered, sacrificed, and died for your freedom. Our families have waited with dread, fear, and loneliness for our return – sometimes waited in vain. It is the price of freedom and we are proud to have served –
I guess it doesn’t much matter what you called us, because whatever you called us, we always answered the call.
Call Me Johnny Boy was written for a Veteran's Day Program at Maple Hill Church of Christ, 2008.
You know me, I first made my appearance at the Battle of Lexington and Concord in 1775 and they called us the minutemen. It took a few years to wrap up that little scuffle with King George’s regulars - them in their shinny red coats, but we kept at it and had that job wrapped up by 1782 – a free country at last – or so we thought.
But those pesky Brits popped back up again in 1812, and we had to convince them all over again that we weren’t joking – All men had indeed been created equal and these United States are and of rights ought to be free and independent States.
Then there was that little misunderstanding with Mexico concerning Texas in 1846, and we demonstrated to our neighbors down south that the lone star really was going to be “one among many” other stars, on that field of blue on the old Stars and Stripes. We do like to do a job up right though, and we ended up not only with Texas, but with California and the whole southwest thrown in for good measure.
Our next job came in 1861 and it might have been the saddest and hardest of all. They called us Johnny Reb or Billy Yank, and we had to fight brother against brother and brave men on both sides sacrificed and died for hearth and home. Five Aprils that job dragged on – from 1861 to 1865 and no war has ever been more costly. The first battle was just off Charleston Harbor at a place called Fort Sumter and the Last one – Well, it was right here, over in Nashville.
Some say that as many as 700,000 of us didn’t come home from that one and a lot of those that did would never be the same. But the Union – it lived on.
For our next little frickkas they hung the name of Rough Riders on us and we sailed off to Cuba in 1898 with old Teddy Roosevelt himself. It wasn’t much of a war unless you were one of he ones there. But to the soldiers who are there, every war is the biggest war – the only war – To them it was the war in which they gave the last full measure of their devotion.
By 1917, we were called on to go help our friends in Europe as German aggression threatened freedom all around this old world. Doughboys – that’s what they called us for this one, and we fought and suffered in a whole new way as our enemies gassed us in the mud filled trenches where we huddled. Between the Hun’s 88s, the wretched trenches, and the Spanish flu – we suffered terribly, but we Yanks went over the top on command. We didn’t start it, but we sure ended it, and by 1918 it was over, over there. In fact it was over 90 years ago this very day. On the eleventh month, the eleventh day, and at the eleventh hour, those big guns stopped, there was silence, and a new wreath of freedom was laid at the feet of the Statue of Liberty.
That last one had been the war to end all wars, the Great War, we called it, but Hitler and His Nazi cronies didn’t play by our rules and by 1941 we were called on again. This time the Japanese had attacked our fleet in Pearl. Dog Faces, Leathernecks, fly boys and swabbies, we were, and we were on the move around the globe. On Normandy Beach, and on the sands of Iwo Jima; we fought for the things we held dear, and for the loved ones we left back home. Finally it was over when President Truman dropped the big one and convinced Emperor Hiro Hito to stand down..
In 1950 we had a little job over in places like Wiejombu, Pusan, and at the Chosan Resovior, and even though thousands of us never came home – the politicians didn’t want to call it a war, so they said it was a police action. 169 Thousand Casualties – some police action.
In 1962 we got involved in a little country in Southeast Asia none of us had ever heard of, and most of us couldn’t pronounce – Vietnam they called it – that one was the big winner as far as time goes because it drug on for 13 years. We didn’t have any pet names for that one – in fact most people stateside didn’t seem to like us for the job we had to do. But like always, we just went and did what we had to do, then came home and quietly went back to work in the world – just thankful we were not one of the 58,000 that got shipped home in a bag.
Now we have a whole new part of the world to worry about – a place called Iraq and we are in the middle of our second war, where sunglasses and desert battle fatigues are the uniform of the day. Oh, and by the way there is a little side job in Afghanistan thrown in just for good measure. I guess we don’t have all of the outcome pegged on this one yet, but we have always done the job before – even when the politicians didn’t exactly cooperate. You see, a soldier’s job has never been to consider the politics of the matter, just to do what we were sent to do, and let the politicians, the professors and the civilians ponder the right of it.
We are American soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines, and we have fought, suffered, sacrificed, and died for your freedom. Our families have waited with dread, fear, and loneliness for our return – sometimes waited in vain. It is the price of freedom and we are proud to have served –
I guess it doesn’t much matter what you called us, because whatever you called us, we always answered the call.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Remembering Private Ryan
Remembering Private Ryan-----------------------------------------------------------
I was thinking to myself, what would I have been doing this weekend in May of 1958? The answer that came back to me was that this was pretty much like any other weekend in 1958. Tobacco setting was almost, if not altogether, finished, summer was full on us, the garden was all put out, but few of the vegetables were at a stage of even early harvest, and frying chickens would not be of size for another week or two yet. Watermelons were not yet ripe, and “brought on” melons were not a common commodity in the grocery stores in Carthage.
In 1958 Memorial Day was not a holiday, at least not one that we recognized. Oh we remembered the day and Daddy always bought one of the “buddy poppies” that the VFW guys sold at the red light in town, but it would be twenty years before someone invented the term “Memorial Day Celebrated” and created a three day weekend in its honor. Before that, Memorial day was May 30th and many southern states did not recognize the day as official. It seems the day had originally been a creation of the GAR (Grand Army of the Republic) which was a veterans organization of the northern army which had fought the civil war. The GAR thought it would be right to commemorate the “last full measure of their devotion” given by those in the Yankee army with a day in which the graves were cleaned and decorated.
For instance, Tennessee celebrated “Decoration Day” on June 3rd which eventually morphed into the first Sunday in June. It is altogether common, even these days, for “decoration day” to be held on the first Sunday in June. For instance, I am speaking at a decoration day in Silver Point Tennessee on June 6th which has extend back for many years.
What did happen on that weekend, on Friday to be exact, is that several unidentified bodies of U. S. soldiers form WWII and Korea were placed at the tomb of the unknown soldier at Arlington Cemetery and it was broadcast on television. Only two weeks before that the Russians had launched Sputnik 3 and Americans were in general, feeling uneasy as one was able to go out and look into the night sky and watch the booster rocket from Sputnik tumble end over end in its orbit above the United States.
A Federal Law which took effect in 1971 changed Memorial Day to be observed as a federal holiday on the last Monday in May, there by creating a three day weekend, and also cheapening the holiday and obscuring its real meaning in the mind of many.
Today many do no know that the flag is to be flown at half staff, it is traditional to decorate the graves of veterans with flags, and it is specifically to honor those KIA (killed in action) or who had died as a result of their wounds received in battle.
The VFW sold the “buddy poppies” in tribute to the poem that achieved note in World War I In Flanders Fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Enjoy the long weekend, celebrate the start of summer, renew your family relationships, but don’t fail to remember folks like my friend PFC Frank Ryan, a young soldier from West Virginia who wore his Baptist Sunday school metals on the breast of his uniform and left a young widow and twins when he failed to return from his first mission in Vietnam. Freedom is indeed not free, but purchased with a price.
Have a blessed day, Bob
I was thinking to myself, what would I have been doing this weekend in May of 1958? The answer that came back to me was that this was pretty much like any other weekend in 1958. Tobacco setting was almost, if not altogether, finished, summer was full on us, the garden was all put out, but few of the vegetables were at a stage of even early harvest, and frying chickens would not be of size for another week or two yet. Watermelons were not yet ripe, and “brought on” melons were not a common commodity in the grocery stores in Carthage.
In 1958 Memorial Day was not a holiday, at least not one that we recognized. Oh we remembered the day and Daddy always bought one of the “buddy poppies” that the VFW guys sold at the red light in town, but it would be twenty years before someone invented the term “Memorial Day Celebrated” and created a three day weekend in its honor. Before that, Memorial day was May 30th and many southern states did not recognize the day as official. It seems the day had originally been a creation of the GAR (Grand Army of the Republic) which was a veterans organization of the northern army which had fought the civil war. The GAR thought it would be right to commemorate the “last full measure of their devotion” given by those in the Yankee army with a day in which the graves were cleaned and decorated.
For instance, Tennessee celebrated “Decoration Day” on June 3rd which eventually morphed into the first Sunday in June. It is altogether common, even these days, for “decoration day” to be held on the first Sunday in June. For instance, I am speaking at a decoration day in Silver Point Tennessee on June 6th which has extend back for many years.
What did happen on that weekend, on Friday to be exact, is that several unidentified bodies of U. S. soldiers form WWII and Korea were placed at the tomb of the unknown soldier at Arlington Cemetery and it was broadcast on television. Only two weeks before that the Russians had launched Sputnik 3 and Americans were in general, feeling uneasy as one was able to go out and look into the night sky and watch the booster rocket from Sputnik tumble end over end in its orbit above the United States.
A Federal Law which took effect in 1971 changed Memorial Day to be observed as a federal holiday on the last Monday in May, there by creating a three day weekend, and also cheapening the holiday and obscuring its real meaning in the mind of many.
Today many do no know that the flag is to be flown at half staff, it is traditional to decorate the graves of veterans with flags, and it is specifically to honor those KIA (killed in action) or who had died as a result of their wounds received in battle.
The VFW sold the “buddy poppies” in tribute to the poem that achieved note in World War I In Flanders Fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Enjoy the long weekend, celebrate the start of summer, renew your family relationships, but don’t fail to remember folks like my friend PFC Frank Ryan, a young soldier from West Virginia who wore his Baptist Sunday school metals on the breast of his uniform and left a young widow and twins when he failed to return from his first mission in Vietnam. Freedom is indeed not free, but purchased with a price.
Have a blessed day, Bob
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Miss Sarah's Little Silver Beau - Faithful Companion
Faithful Companion-------------------------------------------------------------
He was just a little sausage of a thing the first time we ever saw him; no more than 4 or 5 inches long looking for all the world like a black, fat, knockwurst with fur. We weren’t allowed to touch him, only look at him. Miss Jean, who ran Foxcroft Kennels, had strict rules about such things, and the fact that you had already paid a healthy sum of money for the little spud did not change anything.
We counted the days until he became six weeks old and drove out to the kennels in Lapeer Michigan to pick up our new “baby.” With the help of Patrick, who always referred to him as his little brother, we named him Beau after General Beauregard of Confederate Army fame. His full kennel name was Miss Sarah’s Little Silver Beau. Miss Sarah had been “with puppy” when we had gone to Jean Buchard looking for an addition to our family, and we could not resist her shy and gentle nature.
Beau turned out to be everything we could have hoped for; regal in appearance, carriage of a champion, and gentle to a near fault. He was smart and trained easily and performed willingly and with enthusiasm on command. Not surprising given that he was from a line of champions – after all, his daddy, Rambo, was a Canadian Grand Champion Toy Poodle.
The thing that stood out the most about Beau however, was that he was never demanding. He never was a dog who pushed in front of others, even when the others were newer dogs to the household. He would stand back, let them have their fill, then eat his food leisurely, as if knowing that there would always be an adequate supply. He endured the foolishness of a couple of puppies appearing on the scene with good nature and never offered to bully them, though he was several times their size. Groomers loved him, for he never offered to be ill and stood with stoic silence in the face of the shampoo, the clippers, the blow dryer and other indignities.
It was perhaps three years ago that he, then at 12 years old, began to fall into declining health. His eyes went dim, then near complete blindness overtook him. Finally one eye simply shrank away. His hearing had gone a year or so before leaving him in a world of his own except for smell, touch, and taste.
The joys of life had nearly gone for Beau when I cleaned the shriveled eye last night, but he was still able to sniff out a jar of peanut butter which stood nearby. He loved peanut butter, and I fingered our a big swab of the stuff and let him eat his fill. Such chewing and smacking you never heard.
Today we allowed him to go to sleep for the last time, and to rest for the ages in the back yard garden under the shade of an althea bush. He was again snuggled up next to Buttons, his companion of ten years, and although there is a giant hole in our hearts and home, we are somehow at peace knowing that he is at rest. The marker reads Faithful Companion.
There are many lessons that could be learned from Beau concerning selflessness, gentleness, self control, and trust. But most of all, the lesson that one could learn from Beau is faithfulness. One could never come through the door or enter the room in which he resided without seeing a frantically wagging tail – saying, “boy I’m glad your home, you are my person and no one else fills my heart like you.”
Patrick had been home from college the summer Beau came to live at our house and the two “brothers” played a game whereby Beau would wiggle underneath Patrick’s tee shirt and work his way up to stick his furry little head our the neck of the shirt. He never forgot and years later when Patrick was married and had kids, Beau would still try to wiggle under his shirt, completely missing the fact that he was now way to big to make that crawl to the neck.
Mark Twain is quoted as saying, “Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” If heaven went by merit, I’m sure there would be a place for Beau – “Faithful Companion."
Have a blessed day, Bob
He was just a little sausage of a thing the first time we ever saw him; no more than 4 or 5 inches long looking for all the world like a black, fat, knockwurst with fur. We weren’t allowed to touch him, only look at him. Miss Jean, who ran Foxcroft Kennels, had strict rules about such things, and the fact that you had already paid a healthy sum of money for the little spud did not change anything.
We counted the days until he became six weeks old and drove out to the kennels in Lapeer Michigan to pick up our new “baby.” With the help of Patrick, who always referred to him as his little brother, we named him Beau after General Beauregard of Confederate Army fame. His full kennel name was Miss Sarah’s Little Silver Beau. Miss Sarah had been “with puppy” when we had gone to Jean Buchard looking for an addition to our family, and we could not resist her shy and gentle nature.
Beau turned out to be everything we could have hoped for; regal in appearance, carriage of a champion, and gentle to a near fault. He was smart and trained easily and performed willingly and with enthusiasm on command. Not surprising given that he was from a line of champions – after all, his daddy, Rambo, was a Canadian Grand Champion Toy Poodle.
The thing that stood out the most about Beau however, was that he was never demanding. He never was a dog who pushed in front of others, even when the others were newer dogs to the household. He would stand back, let them have their fill, then eat his food leisurely, as if knowing that there would always be an adequate supply. He endured the foolishness of a couple of puppies appearing on the scene with good nature and never offered to bully them, though he was several times their size. Groomers loved him, for he never offered to be ill and stood with stoic silence in the face of the shampoo, the clippers, the blow dryer and other indignities.
It was perhaps three years ago that he, then at 12 years old, began to fall into declining health. His eyes went dim, then near complete blindness overtook him. Finally one eye simply shrank away. His hearing had gone a year or so before leaving him in a world of his own except for smell, touch, and taste.
The joys of life had nearly gone for Beau when I cleaned the shriveled eye last night, but he was still able to sniff out a jar of peanut butter which stood nearby. He loved peanut butter, and I fingered our a big swab of the stuff and let him eat his fill. Such chewing and smacking you never heard.
Today we allowed him to go to sleep for the last time, and to rest for the ages in the back yard garden under the shade of an althea bush. He was again snuggled up next to Buttons, his companion of ten years, and although there is a giant hole in our hearts and home, we are somehow at peace knowing that he is at rest. The marker reads Faithful Companion.
There are many lessons that could be learned from Beau concerning selflessness, gentleness, self control, and trust. But most of all, the lesson that one could learn from Beau is faithfulness. One could never come through the door or enter the room in which he resided without seeing a frantically wagging tail – saying, “boy I’m glad your home, you are my person and no one else fills my heart like you.”
Patrick had been home from college the summer Beau came to live at our house and the two “brothers” played a game whereby Beau would wiggle underneath Patrick’s tee shirt and work his way up to stick his furry little head our the neck of the shirt. He never forgot and years later when Patrick was married and had kids, Beau would still try to wiggle under his shirt, completely missing the fact that he was now way to big to make that crawl to the neck.
Mark Twain is quoted as saying, “Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in.” If heaven went by merit, I’m sure there would be a place for Beau – “Faithful Companion."
Have a blessed day, Bob
Monday, May 24, 2010
A Stroke of Luck
A Stroke of Luck----------------------------------------------------------------------
It was 2:00 a.m. and for some reason I came wide awake. Being a nearly 66 year old man, I decided that since I was awake, and since the bathroom was only a few feet away, I might as well get up. At my age one never misses an opportunity. As I began to sit up, I noticed that my right arm had fallen asleep and was not doing its part in the effort to raise my body to an upright position. Must have slept on it wrong, I though, then it hit me – I was not sleeping on the arm, it was lying stretched out by my side. From shoulder to finger tips, there was nothing but a wooden feeling, someone else’s arm swinging heavily at my side. “Can’t be any really big deal,” I thought, “probably it just needs to be moved around a little.” I began to move it around and there was some sensation, but certainly nothing like I had ever felt before. Every nerve in my body seemed to be vested in the hairs on my arm and alternate sensations of cold and hot rushed through my arm, caused by nothing more than touching the arm with my other hand. It was when I actually got to the bathroom and the arm crashed into the raised toilet seat, causing it to come slamming down that reality began to slam down. I was having, or perhaps more accurately, had already experienced, a stroke.
“What in the world are you doing in there, is something wrong,” came the sleepy voice of the brown eyed girl from the bedroom.
How exactly does one go about telling your wife you have had a stroke, was the question of the moment.
“Honey, the funniest thing happened while I was sleeping….” Or
“You know how you have been wanting me to slow down a little…..” Perhap,
“Hey, do you remember Matt Surdurski? The guy I worked with we all called lefty….”
The fact is, there is no good way to break that kind of news to your wife, so I just said, “I think I may have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I think I may have had a stroke.”
Well, if you are ever looking for a way to get your wife out of bed really fast …. I don’t recommend that one. Oh, it will get her out of bed fast but you need to be ready to deal with what comes next.
In her case it was hardly a word, she just began getting her clothes on and discussing to where she should drive me. We settled on heading west on 70 highway and deciding on the way if our destination was St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville, where all my doctors are located, or UMC in Lebanon, which was closer.
In the interim, I was struggling in a one armed way to get my own clothes on and for some reason felt incredibly calm. My mind was making a list of things I could and could not do with one arm that would not work.
I could probably still drive the tractor on the farm but shifting gears would be a challenge.
I could probably not use my zero turn mower.
I could probably not play my guitar any longer – although that was probably no great loss to the musical world, it is like an old friend to me.
I would have to learn to sign my name with my left hand.
Using a keyboard for writing would be torturously slow.
Taking assessment, I discovered that I had a little movement in my wrist, and made a few practice strokes but decided that I was not likely to be invited to join Ricky Skaggs’ Kentucky Thunder.
Somewhere in the midst of all of this assessment, I had the presence of mind to go to the medicine cabinet and chew up and swallow without water, three whole full strength aspirin – not the kiddy kind the big boy stuff. I knew that somewhere deep within my cerebral cortex was what my neurologist called a “puny” artery, underdeveloped at birth, which had caused me to have a TIA in 2004 and I knew that blood had a tough time passing freely through its punyness.
I had been placed on Plavix, a medication which makes one’s platelets slippery, and a daily aspirin following the TIA and had remained continuously on the medication for 6 years until being taken off a few days prior in preparation for a mildly invasive medical test. I took two of the aspirin, then thought, man like, if two are good, three would be better. As we roared down 70 highway, we came upon the Round Lick Creek Bridge, which had been closed to all but one lane and a stop light at each end controlled the traffic flow though the single lane. I knew that in the daytime the sign read, “Maximum time Red, Three Minutes.” The brown eyed girl did not wait the three minutes much to my consternation. Instead she took the law into her own hands and roared across the bridge in spite of my protests. She was firmly in charge and I knew it. I wondered if it was a harbinger of things to come.
Well to make a long story short, I was transported to St. Thomas Hospital by ambulance from UMC enduring a harrowing 27 minute ride in morning rush hour traffic arriving at the destination just before 7:00 a.m. Somewhere on the way the arm began to regain feeling and some movement and by the evening of the first day, I was able to have limited usage of the limb.
It is now 6 days later and most of the paralysis is gone, with the exception of a shade of fine motor skills that will likely return in time, according to the doctor. “Miss Daisy” is still driving and I am reluctantly sitting in the passenger seat. A neighbor and his two sons showed up this morning and cut my lawn while I sat and watched – grateful but somewhat embarrassed, I must admit.
When I went to bed the night before, I had thought through the next day‘s agenda;
1. Ride out to Defeated Creek Campground and see if it was water damaged. (I still don’t know the answer to that.)
2. Pick up the shirts in Main Street Laundry at Carthage. (They are still there waiting for me – at least I hope so.
3. Check out the rest of the fence line on the farm to see if any tree tops twisted out on the fence. (They had but Randy found them and sawed them off – not me.)
4. Have breakfast at Timberloft with the brown eyed girl. (I finally got something to eat after noon, which was snatched away by a stern nurse who said I was having tests and shouldn’t have gotten a tray.)
5. Check on getting a new roof on the Carthage house. (The old patches will have to last a while longer)
All of life’s priorities can be changed in a moment in the twinkling of an eye and it can come slamming home to us exactly how fragile we are, and how fragile is life. When the ambulance carrying me to St. Thomas Hospital turned onto Interstate 40, we passed the white Chevy Trail Blazer with the brown eyed girl driving, looking fearfully at the disappearing back of the paramedic vehicle, and it hit me. This is real, this is serious, and all of my plans of yesterday have no further meaning or importance in light of new developments.
“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away. Instead, you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that.” But as it is, you boast in your arrogance, all such boasting is evil.” James 4:14-16
If my life is like a vapor, Lord, let it be like the steam that drives a useful engine, not like the fog that obscures the vision of others.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill church of Christ. Bob
It was 2:00 a.m. and for some reason I came wide awake. Being a nearly 66 year old man, I decided that since I was awake, and since the bathroom was only a few feet away, I might as well get up. At my age one never misses an opportunity. As I began to sit up, I noticed that my right arm had fallen asleep and was not doing its part in the effort to raise my body to an upright position. Must have slept on it wrong, I though, then it hit me – I was not sleeping on the arm, it was lying stretched out by my side. From shoulder to finger tips, there was nothing but a wooden feeling, someone else’s arm swinging heavily at my side. “Can’t be any really big deal,” I thought, “probably it just needs to be moved around a little.” I began to move it around and there was some sensation, but certainly nothing like I had ever felt before. Every nerve in my body seemed to be vested in the hairs on my arm and alternate sensations of cold and hot rushed through my arm, caused by nothing more than touching the arm with my other hand. It was when I actually got to the bathroom and the arm crashed into the raised toilet seat, causing it to come slamming down that reality began to slam down. I was having, or perhaps more accurately, had already experienced, a stroke.
“What in the world are you doing in there, is something wrong,” came the sleepy voice of the brown eyed girl from the bedroom.
How exactly does one go about telling your wife you have had a stroke, was the question of the moment.
“Honey, the funniest thing happened while I was sleeping….” Or
“You know how you have been wanting me to slow down a little…..” Perhap,
“Hey, do you remember Matt Surdurski? The guy I worked with we all called lefty….”
The fact is, there is no good way to break that kind of news to your wife, so I just said, “I think I may have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I think I may have had a stroke.”
Well, if you are ever looking for a way to get your wife out of bed really fast …. I don’t recommend that one. Oh, it will get her out of bed fast but you need to be ready to deal with what comes next.
In her case it was hardly a word, she just began getting her clothes on and discussing to where she should drive me. We settled on heading west on 70 highway and deciding on the way if our destination was St. Thomas Hospital in Nashville, where all my doctors are located, or UMC in Lebanon, which was closer.
In the interim, I was struggling in a one armed way to get my own clothes on and for some reason felt incredibly calm. My mind was making a list of things I could and could not do with one arm that would not work.
I could probably still drive the tractor on the farm but shifting gears would be a challenge.
I could probably not use my zero turn mower.
I could probably not play my guitar any longer – although that was probably no great loss to the musical world, it is like an old friend to me.
I would have to learn to sign my name with my left hand.
Using a keyboard for writing would be torturously slow.
Taking assessment, I discovered that I had a little movement in my wrist, and made a few practice strokes but decided that I was not likely to be invited to join Ricky Skaggs’ Kentucky Thunder.
Somewhere in the midst of all of this assessment, I had the presence of mind to go to the medicine cabinet and chew up and swallow without water, three whole full strength aspirin – not the kiddy kind the big boy stuff. I knew that somewhere deep within my cerebral cortex was what my neurologist called a “puny” artery, underdeveloped at birth, which had caused me to have a TIA in 2004 and I knew that blood had a tough time passing freely through its punyness.
I had been placed on Plavix, a medication which makes one’s platelets slippery, and a daily aspirin following the TIA and had remained continuously on the medication for 6 years until being taken off a few days prior in preparation for a mildly invasive medical test. I took two of the aspirin, then thought, man like, if two are good, three would be better. As we roared down 70 highway, we came upon the Round Lick Creek Bridge, which had been closed to all but one lane and a stop light at each end controlled the traffic flow though the single lane. I knew that in the daytime the sign read, “Maximum time Red, Three Minutes.” The brown eyed girl did not wait the three minutes much to my consternation. Instead she took the law into her own hands and roared across the bridge in spite of my protests. She was firmly in charge and I knew it. I wondered if it was a harbinger of things to come.
Well to make a long story short, I was transported to St. Thomas Hospital by ambulance from UMC enduring a harrowing 27 minute ride in morning rush hour traffic arriving at the destination just before 7:00 a.m. Somewhere on the way the arm began to regain feeling and some movement and by the evening of the first day, I was able to have limited usage of the limb.
It is now 6 days later and most of the paralysis is gone, with the exception of a shade of fine motor skills that will likely return in time, according to the doctor. “Miss Daisy” is still driving and I am reluctantly sitting in the passenger seat. A neighbor and his two sons showed up this morning and cut my lawn while I sat and watched – grateful but somewhat embarrassed, I must admit.
When I went to bed the night before, I had thought through the next day‘s agenda;
1. Ride out to Defeated Creek Campground and see if it was water damaged. (I still don’t know the answer to that.)
2. Pick up the shirts in Main Street Laundry at Carthage. (They are still there waiting for me – at least I hope so.
3. Check out the rest of the fence line on the farm to see if any tree tops twisted out on the fence. (They had but Randy found them and sawed them off – not me.)
4. Have breakfast at Timberloft with the brown eyed girl. (I finally got something to eat after noon, which was snatched away by a stern nurse who said I was having tests and shouldn’t have gotten a tray.)
5. Check on getting a new roof on the Carthage house. (The old patches will have to last a while longer)
All of life’s priorities can be changed in a moment in the twinkling of an eye and it can come slamming home to us exactly how fragile we are, and how fragile is life. When the ambulance carrying me to St. Thomas Hospital turned onto Interstate 40, we passed the white Chevy Trail Blazer with the brown eyed girl driving, looking fearfully at the disappearing back of the paramedic vehicle, and it hit me. This is real, this is serious, and all of my plans of yesterday have no further meaning or importance in light of new developments.
“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away. Instead, you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that.” But as it is, you boast in your arrogance, all such boasting is evil.” James 4:14-16
If my life is like a vapor, Lord, let it be like the steam that drives a useful engine, not like the fog that obscures the vision of others.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill church of Christ. Bob
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Waiting Room
The Waiting Room ----------------------------------------------------
Sunday the brown eyed girl and I, along with our son Patrick and his sweet family, went to the homecoming at Morrison’s Creek Church of Christ in Jackson County, Tennessee. It was the eighth such event and it was an overcast day with lots of rain in the forecast. Since it has only been two weeks since the flood of the century hit Middle Tennessee, most of us are still a little skittish when the dark clouds descend, the lightening flashes and the thunder rolls. The river road had been closed twice during the flood and the creek had been out of banks as was obvious by the driftwood washed up on the roadside. Still 129 brave souls showed up to worship together in a style reminiscent of a hundred years ago in a little brick building that has neither indoor toilet nor running water. Quite a crowd for a congregation that usually has 18 to 20 in attendance.
My cousin Roy at age 85 was in charge of the worship service and he simply called on those who were to participate in leading the worship. As the singing started, he moved silently around the room and whispered in your ear that you would be called on for prayer or to serve at the Lord’s table. Three songs, a prayer, two songs, the Lord’s Supper, a song, preaching, an invitation song, announcements and dismissal. No confusion, no surprises, just people doing what they had done for a lifetime – raising their voices to God and worshiping Him while encouraging each other to “walk worthy of their calling.”
Afterwards, plenty of fried chicken and banana pudding under the tent outside, served up with an abundance of love and good will towards one another and our Creator. Not much different than what I can remember from my childhood, except that cars were parked where mule and wagons were tied long ago, and we didn’t carry the homemade benches outside and turn them together to create a table to hold the “dinner on the ground.”
At 2:30 in the afternoon several of us gathered under the shelter of Gwen Lynn’s carport, just down from the old family cemetery and spoke of the reason for gathering together. It was to remember those who had gone before us and lay waiting in the cemetery.
The folks in this little family cemetery were not famous, they were not celebrities, and I am certain that most of the world did not long remember them, but we know something of them and that for which they stood. Over in one corner rested Abner and Elizabeth Chaffin who had purchased this home-place farm in 1858 and moved to their new home around Christmas that same year. It was a good sturdy yellow poplar log house but in 1869 Abner had become the first recorded resident of the cemetery. Over in that corner was Bailey Peyton McClellan, brother-in-law to Abner who had joined the Confederate Army in 1861 and having served out his year of enlistment had simply walked away in 1862 and returned home to tend to his farm, his family, and his own business. According to the army records, he deserted but in his own mind he had fulfilled his commitment and had a family that needed care.
My grandparents, great grandparents, and great great grandparents lie in this little plot of ground adjacent to the, now falling down, house in which I was born on the kitchen table. They were honest hard working folks who forged a life and a living out of a wilderness. Most importantly they are family, and to those of us standing around sheltered from the rain, they are our people and this is our place. There is something compelling about roots and we are fortunate that ours run deep. We are planted with our toes deep in this soil just like the big sycamore trees down by the river.
When those who lie in this plot died, those who could afford it carved the names of their children, their brothers and sisters, or their parents in stone and went back to their daily life – coming here periodically to tend these graves, to clean them and to put flowers on them. Oh, I suspect they knew that only the mortal dust lingered in this spot but they did it out of respect, as a way of saying, I remember that you were, I know you existed and I am thankful for the part you played in my own life.
Sunday, 141 years after Abner was lowered into his final resting place, we came one more time – because our roots compelled us; because we realized that these people who lay around us played an important role in shaping our parents, our grandparents, our great grandparents, and through this linage, ultimately in shaping us. By our presence and our actions we say, “thank you.”
Paul writes in 1 Corinthians that "For as in Adam all die, thus also in Christ all shall be made alive (1 Corinthians 15:22).
Therefore, this cemetery is not just a place of rest, but it is also a place of expectation, a kind of waiting room for those who trust that God will open these graves and waken these dead, and they, having been found faithful, will have nothing to fear from God’s judgment.
In a letter to the church at Corinth, the apostle Paul says, “Behold, I tell you a mystery; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For this perishable must put on the imperishable, and this mortal must put on immortality. 1 Corinthians 15: 51-53
Yes, it was a good day of remembering, of worshiping, of reflecting on the brevity of our own lives, and of resolve to “walk worthy of that to which we were called.”
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill, a church of Christ in Lebanon, Tennessee. Bob
Sunday the brown eyed girl and I, along with our son Patrick and his sweet family, went to the homecoming at Morrison’s Creek Church of Christ in Jackson County, Tennessee. It was the eighth such event and it was an overcast day with lots of rain in the forecast. Since it has only been two weeks since the flood of the century hit Middle Tennessee, most of us are still a little skittish when the dark clouds descend, the lightening flashes and the thunder rolls. The river road had been closed twice during the flood and the creek had been out of banks as was obvious by the driftwood washed up on the roadside. Still 129 brave souls showed up to worship together in a style reminiscent of a hundred years ago in a little brick building that has neither indoor toilet nor running water. Quite a crowd for a congregation that usually has 18 to 20 in attendance.
My cousin Roy at age 85 was in charge of the worship service and he simply called on those who were to participate in leading the worship. As the singing started, he moved silently around the room and whispered in your ear that you would be called on for prayer or to serve at the Lord’s table. Three songs, a prayer, two songs, the Lord’s Supper, a song, preaching, an invitation song, announcements and dismissal. No confusion, no surprises, just people doing what they had done for a lifetime – raising their voices to God and worshiping Him while encouraging each other to “walk worthy of their calling.”
Afterwards, plenty of fried chicken and banana pudding under the tent outside, served up with an abundance of love and good will towards one another and our Creator. Not much different than what I can remember from my childhood, except that cars were parked where mule and wagons were tied long ago, and we didn’t carry the homemade benches outside and turn them together to create a table to hold the “dinner on the ground.”
At 2:30 in the afternoon several of us gathered under the shelter of Gwen Lynn’s carport, just down from the old family cemetery and spoke of the reason for gathering together. It was to remember those who had gone before us and lay waiting in the cemetery.
The folks in this little family cemetery were not famous, they were not celebrities, and I am certain that most of the world did not long remember them, but we know something of them and that for which they stood. Over in one corner rested Abner and Elizabeth Chaffin who had purchased this home-place farm in 1858 and moved to their new home around Christmas that same year. It was a good sturdy yellow poplar log house but in 1869 Abner had become the first recorded resident of the cemetery. Over in that corner was Bailey Peyton McClellan, brother-in-law to Abner who had joined the Confederate Army in 1861 and having served out his year of enlistment had simply walked away in 1862 and returned home to tend to his farm, his family, and his own business. According to the army records, he deserted but in his own mind he had fulfilled his commitment and had a family that needed care.
My grandparents, great grandparents, and great great grandparents lie in this little plot of ground adjacent to the, now falling down, house in which I was born on the kitchen table. They were honest hard working folks who forged a life and a living out of a wilderness. Most importantly they are family, and to those of us standing around sheltered from the rain, they are our people and this is our place. There is something compelling about roots and we are fortunate that ours run deep. We are planted with our toes deep in this soil just like the big sycamore trees down by the river.
When those who lie in this plot died, those who could afford it carved the names of their children, their brothers and sisters, or their parents in stone and went back to their daily life – coming here periodically to tend these graves, to clean them and to put flowers on them. Oh, I suspect they knew that only the mortal dust lingered in this spot but they did it out of respect, as a way of saying, I remember that you were, I know you existed and I am thankful for the part you played in my own life.
Sunday, 141 years after Abner was lowered into his final resting place, we came one more time – because our roots compelled us; because we realized that these people who lay around us played an important role in shaping our parents, our grandparents, our great grandparents, and through this linage, ultimately in shaping us. By our presence and our actions we say, “thank you.”
Paul writes in 1 Corinthians that "For as in Adam all die, thus also in Christ all shall be made alive (1 Corinthians 15:22).
Therefore, this cemetery is not just a place of rest, but it is also a place of expectation, a kind of waiting room for those who trust that God will open these graves and waken these dead, and they, having been found faithful, will have nothing to fear from God’s judgment.
In a letter to the church at Corinth, the apostle Paul says, “Behold, I tell you a mystery; we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet; for the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For this perishable must put on the imperishable, and this mortal must put on immortality. 1 Corinthians 15: 51-53
Yes, it was a good day of remembering, of worshiping, of reflecting on the brevity of our own lives, and of resolve to “walk worthy of that to which we were called.”
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill, a church of Christ in Lebanon, Tennessee. Bob
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Remembering the Queen of the Hill
Walk Worthy of the Calling -------------------------------------------------------
One of my small pleasures of life is sending “old folks” e mails to my sister. She is four years older than I and will be as long as we both remain on this earth. She was born in 1940 and was the first child in the family, not just our family, but “the family” in the larger context. Our cousin Marva did not come along until a year later, so for one whole year Donnieta got to be queen of the hill – the chosen one – the apple of the collective family eye. By 1941 the war had become the focus of all America and the draft, together with a strong wave of patriotism, caused a great bulk of American young men to enter the service of their country. My uncle, U. L. Mabry, was one of those who chose to join up and was soon on his way to U. S. Navy boot camp. Daddy’s sister, Aunt Thelma, moved into the Jackson County ancestral manor, along with Marva Jean and her brother Morris soon followed. Daddy’s younger brother joined the Marine Corps and was soon sending letters from islands with strange sounding names in the South Pacific. Gene, his youngest sister, went to Detroit and became a “Rosie the riveter” in a defense plant. She was a materials expediter, making sure that enough components were in place to avoid interruption of production. She always says that to this day she cannot see more than three of anything without wanting to mark down a count.
I didn’t make my appearance until June 6,1944. While the beaches of Normandy were being stormed by the Allied Forces, Bob and Maylene Chaffin were facing a little storm of their own in the person of yours truly. So the war was over by the time I began to have cognizant knowledge of my own existence and Donnieta and I were again alone with Mama and Daddy in the big house on Roaring River.
I was a bit of an accident prone little fellow, either due to excessive exuberance or excessive awkwardness, which I do not know. One of the earliest memories was swinging on the screen door to our kitchen, feet on the bottom wood panel and homemade door hook in my mouth. My feet slipped off the panel and I was strung up like a catfish out of water. Daddy ran to my aid but was unable to remove the crudely fashioned hook, so he sent 6 year old Donnieta to get a hammer. She simply ran to the barn crying and that incident pretty much defined our relationship for the next 40 years or so.
Strangely enough, after years of good natured sibling rivalry, our relationship changed when my mother became terminally ill. I was working in Cleveland, OH and the task of seeing to Mama and Daddy fell primarily to her. I think it was admiration for how she approached the task that forever altered my perspective of her, perhaps admiration coupled with dependence. I had seen the brown eyed girl struggle through caring for her own mother suffering from the same brand of cancer and was keenly aware of the difficulties involved with both the physical and emotional struggles that come when the parent becomes the child.
God put us here on earth to provide love, care and support for others, just as he has provide love, care and support for us. When Jesus speaks to the disciples of laying down you life for others, I am suspicious it is on two planes. He was obviously going to lay down his physical life for the believers and was calling the believers to lay down their day to day lives for others. Seldom is that more keenly demonstrated when one sees a daughter leave her family and home affairs to the dubious care of a husband, and become the primary care giver for an ailing parent. As difficult as it is, it is a thing of great beauty, and I never remember, even one time, hearing someone say at a funeral, “well, I really wish I had done less.”
One of the greatest blessings of the faith of a believer is the way it calls us to that which is greater than ourselves – that which is only able to be accomplished by Him within us. The abundant life of promise.
Have a blessed day, Bob
One of my small pleasures of life is sending “old folks” e mails to my sister. She is four years older than I and will be as long as we both remain on this earth. She was born in 1940 and was the first child in the family, not just our family, but “the family” in the larger context. Our cousin Marva did not come along until a year later, so for one whole year Donnieta got to be queen of the hill – the chosen one – the apple of the collective family eye. By 1941 the war had become the focus of all America and the draft, together with a strong wave of patriotism, caused a great bulk of American young men to enter the service of their country. My uncle, U. L. Mabry, was one of those who chose to join up and was soon on his way to U. S. Navy boot camp. Daddy’s sister, Aunt Thelma, moved into the Jackson County ancestral manor, along with Marva Jean and her brother Morris soon followed. Daddy’s younger brother joined the Marine Corps and was soon sending letters from islands with strange sounding names in the South Pacific. Gene, his youngest sister, went to Detroit and became a “Rosie the riveter” in a defense plant. She was a materials expediter, making sure that enough components were in place to avoid interruption of production. She always says that to this day she cannot see more than three of anything without wanting to mark down a count.
I didn’t make my appearance until June 6,1944. While the beaches of Normandy were being stormed by the Allied Forces, Bob and Maylene Chaffin were facing a little storm of their own in the person of yours truly. So the war was over by the time I began to have cognizant knowledge of my own existence and Donnieta and I were again alone with Mama and Daddy in the big house on Roaring River.
I was a bit of an accident prone little fellow, either due to excessive exuberance or excessive awkwardness, which I do not know. One of the earliest memories was swinging on the screen door to our kitchen, feet on the bottom wood panel and homemade door hook in my mouth. My feet slipped off the panel and I was strung up like a catfish out of water. Daddy ran to my aid but was unable to remove the crudely fashioned hook, so he sent 6 year old Donnieta to get a hammer. She simply ran to the barn crying and that incident pretty much defined our relationship for the next 40 years or so.
Strangely enough, after years of good natured sibling rivalry, our relationship changed when my mother became terminally ill. I was working in Cleveland, OH and the task of seeing to Mama and Daddy fell primarily to her. I think it was admiration for how she approached the task that forever altered my perspective of her, perhaps admiration coupled with dependence. I had seen the brown eyed girl struggle through caring for her own mother suffering from the same brand of cancer and was keenly aware of the difficulties involved with both the physical and emotional struggles that come when the parent becomes the child.
God put us here on earth to provide love, care and support for others, just as he has provide love, care and support for us. When Jesus speaks to the disciples of laying down you life for others, I am suspicious it is on two planes. He was obviously going to lay down his physical life for the believers and was calling the believers to lay down their day to day lives for others. Seldom is that more keenly demonstrated when one sees a daughter leave her family and home affairs to the dubious care of a husband, and become the primary care giver for an ailing parent. As difficult as it is, it is a thing of great beauty, and I never remember, even one time, hearing someone say at a funeral, “well, I really wish I had done less.”
One of the greatest blessings of the faith of a believer is the way it calls us to that which is greater than ourselves – that which is only able to be accomplished by Him within us. The abundant life of promise.
Have a blessed day, Bob
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Blowing in the Wind
Just Act like you know what you are doing---------
There was a credo by which we operated when I was in college at David Lipscomb in Nashville, and it was “just act like you know what you are doing and no one will question you.” Using this theory, we were able to do a number of foolish things that college students engage in just to make sure the world knows you are alive. For instance, once a friend of mine and myself removed a Grecian column from the stage of Alumni Auditorium posing as workmen and relocated in the center of my room, because we thought it gave the room a nice mediterranian flavor. We also had heard that priests were allowed to ride city busses without the standard fare and turned our shirts and vests backward, put the suit on the right way and simply walked around Nashville posing as priests not because we wanted to acomplish anything, just because we wanted to know if it would work. I suspect it did not!
It was in Nashville that I learned about race relations outside of the sheltered environment of Carthage. By early 1964 sit ins, and freedom marches were beginning to occur all over the south and Nashville was no exception. I had developed a keen interest in photography by that time and when we heard on campus that a freedom march was scheduled down by Vanderbilt, I loaded up my trusty camera and headed that way. I was stationed at the old Holiday Inn on West End where it forks off from broad and it was the epicenter of the action that day. I watched as the nicely dressed young “negro” marchers came down Broadway and out to the Holiday Inn where they began to sit down in the roadway. The Nashville Police moved in quickly, first telling them that they had to keep moving and could not block the street, and then announcing over a bull horn that they would be arrested if they failed to disperse in short order. When no movement was evident, the police began to arrest them, tossing the passive resisters roughhly into paddy wagons for the ride downtown. It was one of those near out of body experiences for me, like it was not I who was there and watching this, but that I was simply watching someone who looked like me watching the show in front of me. I kept trying to sort out how I was feeling about this whole thing. My emotions ranged from “how dare they act like this, they are breaking the law?” to “they aren’t doing anything wrong and besides what is the big deal of eating at a lunch counter anyway?” My guess is that most young people were like me - and not sure how to sort out how they felt, or even how they were supposed to feel.
I found out from a policeman what was going to happen next and made my way down to the Davidson county courthouse where those arrested were herded inside a large courtroom. With my trusty camera as my entrance pass and the newly learned college motto of “just act like you know what you are doing,” I marched into the courtroom along with real reporters and photographers. Once inside someone must have taken a good look at this kid with a cheap camera and decided a few questions were in order. A court bailiff approached me and asked, “who are you representing?’ Since I couldn’t summon up a lie that quickly, I simply said, “I’m a freelance guy.” “Alright, kid out of here” and I was unceremoniously escorted into the hallway with the masses. That marked the end of my journalistic career. But to this day I wonder about the young people my age that I watched that day. Where are they and how do they remember the event? It was a turning point of some kind in my own life and for the first time I began to feel a part of the sixties, with all of the turbulence that entailed. Not that I grew my hair long and started wearing sandals, but I did understand the words of folk music like Peter, Paul and Mary in a different way.
How many times can a man turn his head
and pretend that he just doesn’t see?
And how many years must some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
The answer my friend is Blowing in the Wind.
And it was. What do you remember about that time???
Have a blessed day. Bob
There was a credo by which we operated when I was in college at David Lipscomb in Nashville, and it was “just act like you know what you are doing and no one will question you.” Using this theory, we were able to do a number of foolish things that college students engage in just to make sure the world knows you are alive. For instance, once a friend of mine and myself removed a Grecian column from the stage of Alumni Auditorium posing as workmen and relocated in the center of my room, because we thought it gave the room a nice mediterranian flavor. We also had heard that priests were allowed to ride city busses without the standard fare and turned our shirts and vests backward, put the suit on the right way and simply walked around Nashville posing as priests not because we wanted to acomplish anything, just because we wanted to know if it would work. I suspect it did not!
It was in Nashville that I learned about race relations outside of the sheltered environment of Carthage. By early 1964 sit ins, and freedom marches were beginning to occur all over the south and Nashville was no exception. I had developed a keen interest in photography by that time and when we heard on campus that a freedom march was scheduled down by Vanderbilt, I loaded up my trusty camera and headed that way. I was stationed at the old Holiday Inn on West End where it forks off from broad and it was the epicenter of the action that day. I watched as the nicely dressed young “negro” marchers came down Broadway and out to the Holiday Inn where they began to sit down in the roadway. The Nashville Police moved in quickly, first telling them that they had to keep moving and could not block the street, and then announcing over a bull horn that they would be arrested if they failed to disperse in short order. When no movement was evident, the police began to arrest them, tossing the passive resisters roughhly into paddy wagons for the ride downtown. It was one of those near out of body experiences for me, like it was not I who was there and watching this, but that I was simply watching someone who looked like me watching the show in front of me. I kept trying to sort out how I was feeling about this whole thing. My emotions ranged from “how dare they act like this, they are breaking the law?” to “they aren’t doing anything wrong and besides what is the big deal of eating at a lunch counter anyway?” My guess is that most young people were like me - and not sure how to sort out how they felt, or even how they were supposed to feel.
I found out from a policeman what was going to happen next and made my way down to the Davidson county courthouse where those arrested were herded inside a large courtroom. With my trusty camera as my entrance pass and the newly learned college motto of “just act like you know what you are doing,” I marched into the courtroom along with real reporters and photographers. Once inside someone must have taken a good look at this kid with a cheap camera and decided a few questions were in order. A court bailiff approached me and asked, “who are you representing?’ Since I couldn’t summon up a lie that quickly, I simply said, “I’m a freelance guy.” “Alright, kid out of here” and I was unceremoniously escorted into the hallway with the masses. That marked the end of my journalistic career. But to this day I wonder about the young people my age that I watched that day. Where are they and how do they remember the event? It was a turning point of some kind in my own life and for the first time I began to feel a part of the sixties, with all of the turbulence that entailed. Not that I grew my hair long and started wearing sandals, but I did understand the words of folk music like Peter, Paul and Mary in a different way.
How many times can a man turn his head
and pretend that he just doesn’t see?
And how many years must some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
The answer my friend is Blowing in the Wind.
And it was. What do you remember about that time???
Have a blessed day. Bob
Friday, April 23, 2010
On Finding Fads Funny
Finding Fads Facetious ---------------------------------------------------------
Isn’t it funny how things become a fad among kids? My grandchildren are currently wearing “silly bands” around their wrists in copious quantities. For the uninitiated, silly bands are assorted colors of rubber bands which are shaped like various mammals and fish, among other things. It seems to me they are appropriately named since wearing a rubber band in the shape of anything around your wrist causes it to lose anything but the shape of your wrist? The question I have is, “who is authorized to start a fad?” Are there folks who have that particular job description and are stationed throughout the country for that purpose?
For instance, who started the fad of tattoos covering the body of otherwise normal appearing middle class young people. Tattoos were once reserved for those on the wild side who rode Harley Hogs and were sailors. For that matter, who made it a fad for middle class, middle aged folks with spreading middles to ride Harleys all over the country in the middle of the road?
I remember when wearing letter sweaters and letter jackets, was the “in” thing to do and anyone who was anyone in high school had one. They were properly worn with black slacks, pointed toe shoes, a tee shirt, and hair slicked back with “cream oil charley.” One could get away with jeans, but black, skinny legged, corduroys were really the proper dress.
Then of course, there was the fad of wearing blue jeans with at least 8 inches of cuff turned up. Since I rode my bicycle to David Lollar’s house across from the school and left it in his yard for the day, the turned up cuffs allowed me to tuck my thin spelling book into the cuff for the ride to and from school. After all, one was required to bring a book home and the spelling book was the least obtrusive to a person’s riding ability. Today, young people wear jeans that are more worn out the first time they put them on than mine were when Mama relegated them to the rag bin, having been patched numerous times. How did it get to be a fad to have the seat of your britches revealing the hue of your underwear? In fact, when did it get to be a fad to have your underwear have hues?
I remember in the 80s it was a fad to wear safety pins on your jeans jacket. Eighth and ninth grade girls showed up at school with enough safety pins on their jeans jacket to double the weight of the garment. I suspect many of them, now thirty something, are suffering from back conditions brought about by toting excess weight around in junior high. The safety pins, complimented by scrunchies around their wrist and metallic braces on their teeth completed, “the look.” For boys it was parachute pants and the ability to “break dance” that labeled you as one who knew what was “rad.”
Bobby Socks, saddle shoes, pencil skirts, and can-can petticoats on girls were answered by white tee shirts, preferably with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve, fruit boots, and watch bands two or more inches wide, on guys in the late 50s and early 60s.
It was in the 1970 though, that fad became the coin of the realm. Otherwise serious men showed up at work with ties wide enough to allow them to cover their entire chest with the loud, paisley print affairs, and men’s shirts, which had traditionally been white became flowered prints with wide cuff, wide collars, and rows of buttons on the sleeves. High heeled shoes were no longer reserved for women and many men, including yours truly, wore “platform” shoes to the office. Leisure suits completed the height of the ridiculous and I remember one instance in which I had bought a light kaki colored leisure suit with military cut in Michigan and worn it back to Tennessee to impress the locals. When I walked up to my sisters door she remarked that I looked just like “Ramah of the Jungle going on a safari,” – leave it to a sister to take the wind out of your sails.
Perhaps the most offensive of all of the fads is the current one of wearing your pants down around your knees. Don’t those folks know we are not interested in seeing their BVDs? Why would anyone want to wear their pants that way? Given my considerable waist line which makes it difficult to keep my pants at the proper place, I am only too aware of how uncomfortable it is having your pants at low mast.
Well, I could go on and on with this and perhaps have, but it brings to mind the trends in “worship style.” It has moved from the informal style of the thousands of small congregations which met at 10:00 a.m. every Sunday morning and five minutes before worship the song leader could be seen picking out the song selections on the front seat, to the mega churches of today where every “service” is a choreographed show designed to draw the emotions of the congregants to a crescendo at several peak moments of the exactly one hour performance. Every move is planned today versus the old days when every move was extemporaneous. Even churches of Christ, once all firmly dedicated to acapella singing, that is without instruments, have bowed to the fad of the day to the point that I recently saw one with an article dedicated to the introduction of their “praise band” complete with drums, lead guitars, flashing strobe lights, and electronic piano.
While the church is, and in fact must be, set in the culture of the day, it is important that we recognize that fad is not to dictate what we do, either on Sunday or the other six days of the week. It is important that we realize that the order of things in the assembly must be:
1. Pleasing God
2. Teaching and encouraging others
3. If we work toward the first two, grace will dictate that we ourselves are lifted up.
I am not smart enough to sort out whether the haphazard worship style of the 1940s or the choreographed style of the new century is that which will please The Living God, but I do know that it is the heart of the worshiper He seeks and having that heart directed toward pleasing Him first and providing encouragement to others as a secondary goal is at least one step to worshiping “in spirit and in truth.” In fact, if I read the scripture right, admonishing others IS pleasing God.
“speaking to one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.” Ephesians 5:19
Have a blessed day, and visit us at Maple Hill church of Christ where we make every effort to find a balance acceptable to God. Bob
Isn’t it funny how things become a fad among kids? My grandchildren are currently wearing “silly bands” around their wrists in copious quantities. For the uninitiated, silly bands are assorted colors of rubber bands which are shaped like various mammals and fish, among other things. It seems to me they are appropriately named since wearing a rubber band in the shape of anything around your wrist causes it to lose anything but the shape of your wrist? The question I have is, “who is authorized to start a fad?” Are there folks who have that particular job description and are stationed throughout the country for that purpose?
For instance, who started the fad of tattoos covering the body of otherwise normal appearing middle class young people. Tattoos were once reserved for those on the wild side who rode Harley Hogs and were sailors. For that matter, who made it a fad for middle class, middle aged folks with spreading middles to ride Harleys all over the country in the middle of the road?
I remember when wearing letter sweaters and letter jackets, was the “in” thing to do and anyone who was anyone in high school had one. They were properly worn with black slacks, pointed toe shoes, a tee shirt, and hair slicked back with “cream oil charley.” One could get away with jeans, but black, skinny legged, corduroys were really the proper dress.
Then of course, there was the fad of wearing blue jeans with at least 8 inches of cuff turned up. Since I rode my bicycle to David Lollar’s house across from the school and left it in his yard for the day, the turned up cuffs allowed me to tuck my thin spelling book into the cuff for the ride to and from school. After all, one was required to bring a book home and the spelling book was the least obtrusive to a person’s riding ability. Today, young people wear jeans that are more worn out the first time they put them on than mine were when Mama relegated them to the rag bin, having been patched numerous times. How did it get to be a fad to have the seat of your britches revealing the hue of your underwear? In fact, when did it get to be a fad to have your underwear have hues?
I remember in the 80s it was a fad to wear safety pins on your jeans jacket. Eighth and ninth grade girls showed up at school with enough safety pins on their jeans jacket to double the weight of the garment. I suspect many of them, now thirty something, are suffering from back conditions brought about by toting excess weight around in junior high. The safety pins, complimented by scrunchies around their wrist and metallic braces on their teeth completed, “the look.” For boys it was parachute pants and the ability to “break dance” that labeled you as one who knew what was “rad.”
Bobby Socks, saddle shoes, pencil skirts, and can-can petticoats on girls were answered by white tee shirts, preferably with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve, fruit boots, and watch bands two or more inches wide, on guys in the late 50s and early 60s.
It was in the 1970 though, that fad became the coin of the realm. Otherwise serious men showed up at work with ties wide enough to allow them to cover their entire chest with the loud, paisley print affairs, and men’s shirts, which had traditionally been white became flowered prints with wide cuff, wide collars, and rows of buttons on the sleeves. High heeled shoes were no longer reserved for women and many men, including yours truly, wore “platform” shoes to the office. Leisure suits completed the height of the ridiculous and I remember one instance in which I had bought a light kaki colored leisure suit with military cut in Michigan and worn it back to Tennessee to impress the locals. When I walked up to my sisters door she remarked that I looked just like “Ramah of the Jungle going on a safari,” – leave it to a sister to take the wind out of your sails.
Perhaps the most offensive of all of the fads is the current one of wearing your pants down around your knees. Don’t those folks know we are not interested in seeing their BVDs? Why would anyone want to wear their pants that way? Given my considerable waist line which makes it difficult to keep my pants at the proper place, I am only too aware of how uncomfortable it is having your pants at low mast.
Well, I could go on and on with this and perhaps have, but it brings to mind the trends in “worship style.” It has moved from the informal style of the thousands of small congregations which met at 10:00 a.m. every Sunday morning and five minutes before worship the song leader could be seen picking out the song selections on the front seat, to the mega churches of today where every “service” is a choreographed show designed to draw the emotions of the congregants to a crescendo at several peak moments of the exactly one hour performance. Every move is planned today versus the old days when every move was extemporaneous. Even churches of Christ, once all firmly dedicated to acapella singing, that is without instruments, have bowed to the fad of the day to the point that I recently saw one with an article dedicated to the introduction of their “praise band” complete with drums, lead guitars, flashing strobe lights, and electronic piano.
While the church is, and in fact must be, set in the culture of the day, it is important that we recognize that fad is not to dictate what we do, either on Sunday or the other six days of the week. It is important that we realize that the order of things in the assembly must be:
1. Pleasing God
2. Teaching and encouraging others
3. If we work toward the first two, grace will dictate that we ourselves are lifted up.
I am not smart enough to sort out whether the haphazard worship style of the 1940s or the choreographed style of the new century is that which will please The Living God, but I do know that it is the heart of the worshiper He seeks and having that heart directed toward pleasing Him first and providing encouragement to others as a secondary goal is at least one step to worshiping “in spirit and in truth.” In fact, if I read the scripture right, admonishing others IS pleasing God.
“speaking to one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.” Ephesians 5:19
Have a blessed day, and visit us at Maple Hill church of Christ where we make every effort to find a balance acceptable to God. Bob
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Side Show vs. The Main Show
Snow Cones, Baloney Sandwiches, and Double Colas--------------------------------
Do you remember when snow cones first made their appearance in Carthage. The first I remember is when Mr. Dennis opened a snow cone stand out at the stock sale barn across the lot from where I lived. Boy were they good. You could get a cherry, grape, orange, strawberry, or Lime flavor, but mostly they all tasted pretty much the same – sweet!
The stock sale barn was the source of constant amusement for me growing up – well not the sale barn itself but the happenings attendant to the stock sales. There was the bowling alley with two lanes, five pins, and little bowling balls about the size of a really big grapefruit. They had no holes for thumb and fingers and several of us were able to get a small part time job setting pins by hand. There was a padded board behind the pins that was on hinges and the balls hit the backstop with force enough to knock out a mule when those old farmers let fly of the ball. Most of us who sat pens perched on top of the swinging board watching the projectile come cannon balling down the alley. We sat the pins, then returned the ball by placing it manually on the center runway.
The little long white building had not always been a five pin bowling alley of course, it was a feed store run by Mr. Stone, who was the father of Mrs. Minnie Francis Rankin originally and the farmers could come to sale and load their trucks with sacks of feed from out the many “load windows” on each side of the little long white building.
There was also a fair amount of “politicking” taking place at the stock sale and local candidates were easily spotted working various sections of the parking area, handing out bumper stickers and posters to be nailed up on the nearest telephone pole in your neighborhood.
On the side where the trucks lined up were the “pin hookers” who were anxious to buy your livestock right there in the truck and save you the time and anxiety required to send them through the auction ring. Their intent was to pay you a little less than they would be able to get in the ring and there by make a profit from doing nothing but betting on what the auction price would be. I suppose it was an early version of the futures market.
It was the big show in town on Tuesdays and Thursdays and everyone tried to get in on the act – even me. I remember that one year I prepared a sweet potato bed and raised sweet potato “slips” which I sold to farmers coming to sale day. I don’t recommend it as a way to make your first million.
A lot of the farmers would come early and leave late, using that day as an excuse to get away from the hum-drum of farm life. A reason to have a baloney sandwich which Daddy would slice by hand from the big stick of baloney and a can of pork-n-beans in one of the paper cups Daddy provided at the little table in the back of the store. That along with a Double Cola provided nourishment to see one through the day till a real meal was available for supper.
There were so many “side shows” going on at the sale barn, it was easy to miss the main purpose for the gathering. I am quite sure that many men came and spent the day without actually seeing a single head of livestock auctioned. Between snow cones, chairs for sale, bowling alleys, baloney sandwiches, knife trading, and lie swapping, the day was easily spent and the main event completely ignored.
It is easy to be like that in life, to become so consumed with the side shows that we forget the purpose of the gathering, the main event. For us in the church, the main event is to glorify God, but we often get so involved in the various social functions of the church that we forget to focus, to keep the main thing, the main thing. As to the world, well just drive by a golf course or a driving range on a sunny Sunday morning and look at the crowd. A friend noted that his six year old daughter observed the crush of cars at a golf course one Sunday morning and declared, “Those people must be Jewish.” It was beyond her comprehension that anyone would just not be going to be part of the main event, “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
Do you remember when snow cones first made their appearance in Carthage. The first I remember is when Mr. Dennis opened a snow cone stand out at the stock sale barn across the lot from where I lived. Boy were they good. You could get a cherry, grape, orange, strawberry, or Lime flavor, but mostly they all tasted pretty much the same – sweet!
The stock sale barn was the source of constant amusement for me growing up – well not the sale barn itself but the happenings attendant to the stock sales. There was the bowling alley with two lanes, five pins, and little bowling balls about the size of a really big grapefruit. They had no holes for thumb and fingers and several of us were able to get a small part time job setting pins by hand. There was a padded board behind the pins that was on hinges and the balls hit the backstop with force enough to knock out a mule when those old farmers let fly of the ball. Most of us who sat pens perched on top of the swinging board watching the projectile come cannon balling down the alley. We sat the pins, then returned the ball by placing it manually on the center runway.
The little long white building had not always been a five pin bowling alley of course, it was a feed store run by Mr. Stone, who was the father of Mrs. Minnie Francis Rankin originally and the farmers could come to sale and load their trucks with sacks of feed from out the many “load windows” on each side of the little long white building.
There was also a fair amount of “politicking” taking place at the stock sale and local candidates were easily spotted working various sections of the parking area, handing out bumper stickers and posters to be nailed up on the nearest telephone pole in your neighborhood.
On the side where the trucks lined up were the “pin hookers” who were anxious to buy your livestock right there in the truck and save you the time and anxiety required to send them through the auction ring. Their intent was to pay you a little less than they would be able to get in the ring and there by make a profit from doing nothing but betting on what the auction price would be. I suppose it was an early version of the futures market.
It was the big show in town on Tuesdays and Thursdays and everyone tried to get in on the act – even me. I remember that one year I prepared a sweet potato bed and raised sweet potato “slips” which I sold to farmers coming to sale day. I don’t recommend it as a way to make your first million.
A lot of the farmers would come early and leave late, using that day as an excuse to get away from the hum-drum of farm life. A reason to have a baloney sandwich which Daddy would slice by hand from the big stick of baloney and a can of pork-n-beans in one of the paper cups Daddy provided at the little table in the back of the store. That along with a Double Cola provided nourishment to see one through the day till a real meal was available for supper.
There were so many “side shows” going on at the sale barn, it was easy to miss the main purpose for the gathering. I am quite sure that many men came and spent the day without actually seeing a single head of livestock auctioned. Between snow cones, chairs for sale, bowling alleys, baloney sandwiches, knife trading, and lie swapping, the day was easily spent and the main event completely ignored.
It is easy to be like that in life, to become so consumed with the side shows that we forget the purpose of the gathering, the main event. For us in the church, the main event is to glorify God, but we often get so involved in the various social functions of the church that we forget to focus, to keep the main thing, the main thing. As to the world, well just drive by a golf course or a driving range on a sunny Sunday morning and look at the crowd. A friend noted that his six year old daughter observed the crush of cars at a golf course one Sunday morning and declared, “Those people must be Jewish.” It was beyond her comprehension that anyone would just not be going to be part of the main event, “to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Don't Worry, Just Be Happy
High School Worry Warts-------------------------------------------------------
The brown eyed girl and I went to Panarea Bread to have a bite the other night and ran into our back door neighbor and his daughter. Candice was saying how anxious, or “so ready to be out of high school” she was which started me to thinking.
Did you ever wish your life was still as simple as is was when you were in high school? Do you remember the things that troubled you then and how trivial they seem today?
Here is a sample of the things that topped my list: I wonder how they would compare with your own.
1. Which teacher will I get for English Lit next year, will it be Mrs. “Tough as Nails” or Mrs. “I’ll let you slide through and catch up on the sleep you missed last night, but you won’t learn a thing.”
2. Do you suppose Mr. Dickerson will allow me to write the periodic tables on paper and make up the bad grade I got on that last test? And closely related to that one, can I master the art of holding two pencils in my hand and writing two lines at once like another boy, who shall remain unnamed, could?
3. Will my pay envelope from Western Auto be large enough to get those pointy toed shoes from Waggoner-Maggart and still be able to afford a decent Valentine’s Day gift for my girlfriend, or will she have to do with less this year?
4. Will I be able to get my locker, which is next to the band room, open and still have time to get to my third period Algebra II class with Mrs. Oldham, which is on the far end of the second floor, or will I have to carry that stupid Algebra book around all morning?
5. Today is the day we must dress out for P.E. basketball, do you think anyone will notice the hole in my tighty-whities where the Maytag chewed up the seat of them last week?
6. What is the combination to my locker anyway?
7. Do you suppose Daddy will let me use the car to go to the basketball game in Gordonsville, and if I can work that out, how about Watertown?
8. I wonder if I did my homework, or will the dog have eaten it again? I know I started, but did I finish?
9. Why is Mr. McDonald looking at me? Do you think he knows who threw the rocks from the water tower?
10. Why does the order of the universe demand that you like some girl, who likes some other boy, who likes some other girl, and so on until you finally find a steady girlfriend?
11. If I sit at the cafeteria table with all of those popular kids, do you suppose anyone will actually ask me to leave, or just make me wish I had by how they treat me?
Now all of these things certainly seem trivial today from a perspective of nearly 50 years hindsight, but they were the things that made high school something to be feared in the years between 14 and 18, and probably are some of the same things that are bothering the neighbor girl and making her be “so ready to be out of high school.” One would lie awake at night trying to arrive at some knowledge or wisdom which would yield at least one answer, all to no avail.
That which is important moves as our life evolves and I remember complaining to an older friend about the trials of raising young children. This one would not eat his peas; that one would hook his toes into the side of the baby bed and crawl out like an expert mountain climber. This one wanted a bike which I couldn’t afford, and that one had a doctor bill, which I certainly couldn’t afford.
My friend, who had grown children, listened patiently then said, “Bob, little kids – little problems, big kids – big problems.”
In the final analysis, I have come to the conclusion that the problem I am facing today is the most important problem in the world, at least to me, at least today.
I remember taking one of those self improvement classes that GM sometimes wasted money to provide for me that was called, “Be Here Now” and the premise was that we need to live in the moment – to be here now. I suppose there is some wisdom to that, since scripture tells us that, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” and to “not worry about tomorrow” but most of us who put our trust in Jesus live on two planes; the here and now; and the world to come.
The great paradox of, “I’ve got a mansion just over the hilltop” and He came “that you might have life and have it more abundantly.”
My dad often opined that if he were given the chance to change things in his life, he would be afraid to do so for fear of what good thing he might mess up or miss out on. I suppose I got that philosophy from him since I seldom think of little on my own initiative, but I think it is a good hook to hang your hat on, don’t you? In the mean time, don’t worry, be happy.
And, have a blessed day, Bob
The brown eyed girl and I went to Panarea Bread to have a bite the other night and ran into our back door neighbor and his daughter. Candice was saying how anxious, or “so ready to be out of high school” she was which started me to thinking.
Did you ever wish your life was still as simple as is was when you were in high school? Do you remember the things that troubled you then and how trivial they seem today?
Here is a sample of the things that topped my list: I wonder how they would compare with your own.
1. Which teacher will I get for English Lit next year, will it be Mrs. “Tough as Nails” or Mrs. “I’ll let you slide through and catch up on the sleep you missed last night, but you won’t learn a thing.”
2. Do you suppose Mr. Dickerson will allow me to write the periodic tables on paper and make up the bad grade I got on that last test? And closely related to that one, can I master the art of holding two pencils in my hand and writing two lines at once like another boy, who shall remain unnamed, could?
3. Will my pay envelope from Western Auto be large enough to get those pointy toed shoes from Waggoner-Maggart and still be able to afford a decent Valentine’s Day gift for my girlfriend, or will she have to do with less this year?
4. Will I be able to get my locker, which is next to the band room, open and still have time to get to my third period Algebra II class with Mrs. Oldham, which is on the far end of the second floor, or will I have to carry that stupid Algebra book around all morning?
5. Today is the day we must dress out for P.E. basketball, do you think anyone will notice the hole in my tighty-whities where the Maytag chewed up the seat of them last week?
6. What is the combination to my locker anyway?
7. Do you suppose Daddy will let me use the car to go to the basketball game in Gordonsville, and if I can work that out, how about Watertown?
8. I wonder if I did my homework, or will the dog have eaten it again? I know I started, but did I finish?
9. Why is Mr. McDonald looking at me? Do you think he knows who threw the rocks from the water tower?
10. Why does the order of the universe demand that you like some girl, who likes some other boy, who likes some other girl, and so on until you finally find a steady girlfriend?
11. If I sit at the cafeteria table with all of those popular kids, do you suppose anyone will actually ask me to leave, or just make me wish I had by how they treat me?
Now all of these things certainly seem trivial today from a perspective of nearly 50 years hindsight, but they were the things that made high school something to be feared in the years between 14 and 18, and probably are some of the same things that are bothering the neighbor girl and making her be “so ready to be out of high school.” One would lie awake at night trying to arrive at some knowledge or wisdom which would yield at least one answer, all to no avail.
That which is important moves as our life evolves and I remember complaining to an older friend about the trials of raising young children. This one would not eat his peas; that one would hook his toes into the side of the baby bed and crawl out like an expert mountain climber. This one wanted a bike which I couldn’t afford, and that one had a doctor bill, which I certainly couldn’t afford.
My friend, who had grown children, listened patiently then said, “Bob, little kids – little problems, big kids – big problems.”
In the final analysis, I have come to the conclusion that the problem I am facing today is the most important problem in the world, at least to me, at least today.
I remember taking one of those self improvement classes that GM sometimes wasted money to provide for me that was called, “Be Here Now” and the premise was that we need to live in the moment – to be here now. I suppose there is some wisdom to that, since scripture tells us that, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” and to “not worry about tomorrow” but most of us who put our trust in Jesus live on two planes; the here and now; and the world to come.
The great paradox of, “I’ve got a mansion just over the hilltop” and He came “that you might have life and have it more abundantly.”
My dad often opined that if he were given the chance to change things in his life, he would be afraid to do so for fear of what good thing he might mess up or miss out on. I suppose I got that philosophy from him since I seldom think of little on my own initiative, but I think it is a good hook to hang your hat on, don’t you? In the mean time, don’t worry, be happy.
And, have a blessed day, Bob
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Doing the Drive-in on Date Night
Heavy Chevys, Drive-inns, and Keep the Change-------------------------------
To the best of my recollection, the first time I ever went to a drive-in movie was with a bunch of guys from Lipscomb. The Great Escape, with Steve McQueen, was playing at the old Crescent Drive Inn on Murfreesboro Road and five of us went with three in the car and two in the trunk, since you paid by the person.
I don’t think I ever took a date to a drive-in movie though, since there wasn’t one in Carthage, I was not allowed to drive out of town (my world was bounded by South Carthage and Dixon Springs), it is doubtful that my girlfriend’s mother would have allowed her to go to a “passion pit,” and my parents would have had a fit if they caught me in such a place. Lipscomb girls were not allowed to frequent drive-in movies, so I was married before I had much experience with a drive-in. Pretty much when you go to the drive-in with your wife you watch the movie, although a little heavy snuggling was not out of the question.
Eventually Carthage did get a drive-in movie down on highway 25 by the golf course, along with just about every other town in America. From the mid sixties to the mid seventies, America was having a love affair with speed, big block engines, and land yachts like the 1975 Pontiac Bonneville Brougham we owned. Power adjustable front bench seats, faux leather upholstery, a marshmallow ride, and air conditioning as a standard in these behemoths was a counter point to Heavy Chevys, Four-Four-Two Oldsmobiles (400 cubic inch engine, Four on the floor, and dual exhaust), and Pontiac GTOs with wide blackwall tires and baby moon hubs. Motown was pumping out both the cars and the music America loved and everyone was looking for new things to both utilize and to show off their “ride.”
There were dive-in restaurants, Drive in Laundries, Drive-in weddings, Drive-in movies, and even Drive-in churches and funeral home viewing.
Since our oldest son Christopher was born in November of 1969, followed by Patrick in 1973, the boom hit right in the middle of their “got to have a babysitter” years, and our “ran out of money before we ran out of month” years. The drive-in movie provided a perfect solution to both problems, it was cheap to get in, there was no charge for the boys, and we could put our collapsible mesh net playpen (the latest thing) in the back seat. The leg lengths were adjustable to allow the playpen to be erected in the back seat of the big old Bonneville and the boys could watch a cartoon then lay down and go to sleep while mom and dad watched the main feature. There were not only speakers which came off the post and inside the car; there were also electric heaters on the post which would keep the car moderately warm in all but the coldest weather. A shared large drink and a medium box of popcorn from the concession stand, or in some cases treats brought from home at much reduced prices, created a perfect “date night” with no need to pay a babysitter. I would venture to say that most of the movies we saw during the period from 1969 – 1978 were at the drive in with two little boys snoozing peacefully in the back while mom and dad watched the movie and occasionally did a little smooching just for fun. Many families did the same thing, often arriving early so the children could the utilize the playground with swings and jungle gyms that often were located in the space just in front of the screen which was unsuitable for parking patron’s cars. If one went to the concession stand and did not get through the massive line before the intermission was over and the lights were cut, finding your car again could be a formidable challenge. I took to memorizing the number of rows forward or back and the number of lanes over to avoid peeking and poking into cars that ought not to have been peeked and poked into.
In 1973 the first oil embargo struck when the NATO decision to resupply Israel after the Yom Kipper War prompted OAPEC to drastically reduce oil shipments to the U.S. as punishment. This launched an avalanche of second guessing as to why carmakers had not foreseen the coming event and made smaller cars. The fact that we had and nobody bought them escaped everybody’s attention. Soon it was unfashionable to own a “gas guzzler” and the great love affair with “real cars” began to grind to a halt. Americans were buying Volkswagen Beetles, Datsuns, and Vespa Scooters and President Gerald Ford was encouraging Americans to WIN (Whip Inflation Now) as economists were forced to invent a new term, stagflation as both inflation rates and unemployment soared, forcing interest rates rocketing toward high water marks for modern times. The glory days were gone, predictably gone forever.
With the demise of the American love affair with the personal automobile and the rise of the concept of it as simply a means of transportation that needed only to be dependable, came also the demise of the search for a place to showcase your particular work of Detroit Art. Drive-in everything, including drive-in movies began to close in droves and today they are mostly as extinct as the U. S. Carrier Pigeon, although a few exist as a novelty here and there. As inflation drove the value of the land they sat on up by double digit increases yearly, and the cost of electricity, gasoline, and hot dogs shot up, the joy of sitting in a small car equipped with bucket seats seemed less than a fading memory and soon only a big screen carcass punctuated the landscape here and there, the cost of demolition being greater than the value of the small parcel of land on which it sat.
The old Crescent Drive-inn in Nashville was replaced long ago by a giant Kroger and attendant businesses, but if you are on Murfreesboro Road and are interested one day, stop in and view the great aerial shot of the glory days of the Crescent.
All things change and cultural icons disappear but one thing only remains constant. “Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave, Who bids the mighty ocean deep its own appointed limits keep, Oh hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril of the sea.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
To the best of my recollection, the first time I ever went to a drive-in movie was with a bunch of guys from Lipscomb. The Great Escape, with Steve McQueen, was playing at the old Crescent Drive Inn on Murfreesboro Road and five of us went with three in the car and two in the trunk, since you paid by the person.
I don’t think I ever took a date to a drive-in movie though, since there wasn’t one in Carthage, I was not allowed to drive out of town (my world was bounded by South Carthage and Dixon Springs), it is doubtful that my girlfriend’s mother would have allowed her to go to a “passion pit,” and my parents would have had a fit if they caught me in such a place. Lipscomb girls were not allowed to frequent drive-in movies, so I was married before I had much experience with a drive-in. Pretty much when you go to the drive-in with your wife you watch the movie, although a little heavy snuggling was not out of the question.
Eventually Carthage did get a drive-in movie down on highway 25 by the golf course, along with just about every other town in America. From the mid sixties to the mid seventies, America was having a love affair with speed, big block engines, and land yachts like the 1975 Pontiac Bonneville Brougham we owned. Power adjustable front bench seats, faux leather upholstery, a marshmallow ride, and air conditioning as a standard in these behemoths was a counter point to Heavy Chevys, Four-Four-Two Oldsmobiles (400 cubic inch engine, Four on the floor, and dual exhaust), and Pontiac GTOs with wide blackwall tires and baby moon hubs. Motown was pumping out both the cars and the music America loved and everyone was looking for new things to both utilize and to show off their “ride.”
There were dive-in restaurants, Drive in Laundries, Drive-in weddings, Drive-in movies, and even Drive-in churches and funeral home viewing.
Since our oldest son Christopher was born in November of 1969, followed by Patrick in 1973, the boom hit right in the middle of their “got to have a babysitter” years, and our “ran out of money before we ran out of month” years. The drive-in movie provided a perfect solution to both problems, it was cheap to get in, there was no charge for the boys, and we could put our collapsible mesh net playpen (the latest thing) in the back seat. The leg lengths were adjustable to allow the playpen to be erected in the back seat of the big old Bonneville and the boys could watch a cartoon then lay down and go to sleep while mom and dad watched the main feature. There were not only speakers which came off the post and inside the car; there were also electric heaters on the post which would keep the car moderately warm in all but the coldest weather. A shared large drink and a medium box of popcorn from the concession stand, or in some cases treats brought from home at much reduced prices, created a perfect “date night” with no need to pay a babysitter. I would venture to say that most of the movies we saw during the period from 1969 – 1978 were at the drive in with two little boys snoozing peacefully in the back while mom and dad watched the movie and occasionally did a little smooching just for fun. Many families did the same thing, often arriving early so the children could the utilize the playground with swings and jungle gyms that often were located in the space just in front of the screen which was unsuitable for parking patron’s cars. If one went to the concession stand and did not get through the massive line before the intermission was over and the lights were cut, finding your car again could be a formidable challenge. I took to memorizing the number of rows forward or back and the number of lanes over to avoid peeking and poking into cars that ought not to have been peeked and poked into.
In 1973 the first oil embargo struck when the NATO decision to resupply Israel after the Yom Kipper War prompted OAPEC to drastically reduce oil shipments to the U.S. as punishment. This launched an avalanche of second guessing as to why carmakers had not foreseen the coming event and made smaller cars. The fact that we had and nobody bought them escaped everybody’s attention. Soon it was unfashionable to own a “gas guzzler” and the great love affair with “real cars” began to grind to a halt. Americans were buying Volkswagen Beetles, Datsuns, and Vespa Scooters and President Gerald Ford was encouraging Americans to WIN (Whip Inflation Now) as economists were forced to invent a new term, stagflation as both inflation rates and unemployment soared, forcing interest rates rocketing toward high water marks for modern times. The glory days were gone, predictably gone forever.
With the demise of the American love affair with the personal automobile and the rise of the concept of it as simply a means of transportation that needed only to be dependable, came also the demise of the search for a place to showcase your particular work of Detroit Art. Drive-in everything, including drive-in movies began to close in droves and today they are mostly as extinct as the U. S. Carrier Pigeon, although a few exist as a novelty here and there. As inflation drove the value of the land they sat on up by double digit increases yearly, and the cost of electricity, gasoline, and hot dogs shot up, the joy of sitting in a small car equipped with bucket seats seemed less than a fading memory and soon only a big screen carcass punctuated the landscape here and there, the cost of demolition being greater than the value of the small parcel of land on which it sat.
The old Crescent Drive-inn in Nashville was replaced long ago by a giant Kroger and attendant businesses, but if you are on Murfreesboro Road and are interested one day, stop in and view the great aerial shot of the glory days of the Crescent.
All things change and cultural icons disappear but one thing only remains constant. “Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave, Who bids the mighty ocean deep its own appointed limits keep, Oh hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril of the sea.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
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