Appreciating the Spring--------------
The Red Bud trees are starting to bloom now and the Dogwoods will not be far behind. We are beginning to back off on the amount of hay the cattle are being fed and soon they will turn up their noses at the dry brown hay in favor of the juicy green shoots beginning to cover the hillside pasture to the right of Kennedy Lane. The Yoshima Cherries are turning their radiant pink and white is emerging on every Bradford Pear. Soon all of us who still cut our own lawn will be checking to see if the blade on the lawnmower needs sharpening and that the engine will still start. Unlike the days when lawn mowing was something I did after work or in the precious few hour away from work on Saturdays, I now look forward to the yard work and the feeling of accomplishment it gives me when I finish a day of making the place look “shipshape.”
I love the warm weather, for I have a tremendous basis of comparison with life in the great white frozen north when winter set in about the beginning of November and lasted until nearly June. When the brown eyed girl and I lived in Grand Rapids Michigan, the annual snowfall often hovered around 75 inches but in some years was double that amount. I remember that in one particularly rough winter the snowfall nearly doubled the average and a whopping 20 inches fell in a single January storm which lasted little more than 24 hours. My family had not yet moved to Grand Rapids and I was a more or less permanent resident of the local Holiday Inn when the big blizzard of 78 came to Michigan. I woke up that morning to a 20 inch snowfall and 21 degrees below zero. As I was seriously debating with myself on the wisdom of accepting this assignment, I was also wondering if the little 1976 Vega I was driving would, by some miracle, start. It did not, but the Plant Protection people came out to pick me up in a four wheel drive Suburban.
I also remember my two little children hiding Easter eggs in the snow that year and the worry of the community centered around the fact that several of our school children had been injured by sliding off snow banks in front of oncoming cars while waiting for the school bus. One could scarcely tell where in the community you were located since it was difficult to find even a single landmark not covered by snow. Many careful drivers had placed tall bike poles with orange flags on the front bumper of their cars so others drivers would be able to know their whereabouts at four way intersections, since seeing over the snow banks was impossible. It was not uncommon to see neighbors on flatter roof surfaces with their snow blowers reducing the weight load on the rafters, or to see collapsed roofs on outbuilding that had not had that level of care.
Less common, but occurring on several occasions were “white outs,” where it became impossible to see out of the windows of your home or office because blowing snow whipping through the air completely obliterated the field of vision or where seeing even the hood of one’s own car became impossible.
Roads were attached by massive trucks with snow plows higher than my head, but even so main north/south arteries such as the 131 freeway sometimes ground to a halt as drifting and blowing snow packed underpasses with snow from pavement to the girders of the bridge overhead. Massive broken back front end loaders had to be trucked in and the snow loaded into tandem gravel haulers and trucked to the Grand River and dumped.
The winters we spent in Cleveland Ohio were scarcely better than the ones in Grand Rapids, and if I really want to remember what it is like to be cold, I simply remember back to the winter I spent in Korea with the Siberian wind swooping down and blowing through the Quonset huts in which we lived.
Yes, I know how to appreciate the spring and how to appreciate the mild weather of Middle Tennessee, even in colder winters like this one in 2009 and 2010, because I have seen how tough the winter is capable of being and what it is like to go days upon end without seeing a ray of sunshine and weeks upon weeks when the mercury never went above freezing, sometimes staying below zero for days at a time.
It has always seemed to me that folks who have faced lives filled with brokenness and hardship are, in the same way, more able to appreciate God’s Grace, having experience the terrible emptiness of life without Him, that those of us who were raised in more religious environments did not encounter. They are able to sing with a special conviction in their voice, “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.”
I suppose the irony of it all is that each of us was just as lost, and just as blind, but we are unable to see the contrast as clearly. It seems that just as Ma Ma Maberry often said, “Ever cloud has a silver lining” for I sometime envy them their sharpness of focus on God’s Saving Grace.
May you experience God’s Saving Grace in a special way and be able to clearly focus on its impact in your life.
Bob
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
One Contemplating Missed Opportunities
Contemplating Missed Opportunities---------
Since we are on a little vacation, I think we might stop in Savannah tomorrow. I am a confirmed history nerd, and I love to visit places with rich history and try to imagine what they might have been like in “the day.” In Savannah’s case you can stroll down the riverfront of the city paved with cobble stones that were shipped to the old city as ballast in belly of sailing vessels that were to take cotton and tobacco back to England. The cotton exchanges and warehouses still stand and the old city cemeteries have interments that date back to those who came with James Oglethorpe in 1733. Not far away one may visit the historic Fort Pulaski which was in turn occupied by both Confederate and Union forces in the War Between the States. Like many of the other various port cities in the United States the riverfront was where the action was and shipping was the name of the game in the newly established colony of Georgia, named after King George of England.
I look forward to strolling along the riverfront and entering the little cafes that line that historic area where one must duck your head to avoid bumping your noggin on doors that were crafted when the average occupant of the city was much shorter (and undoubtedly much lighter) than today.
When we lived in Cleveland, Ohio the riverfront there had been much the same as the riverfront of Savannah in the early 1800s. I remember being on Fisherman’s Warf in San Francisco and seeing a lovely painting entitled “Night Arrival on the Cuyahoga.” The painting depicted the Cleveland Cuyahoga Riverfront as it had been in 1850 when Cleveland was a leading source of iron and steel production and an important industrial city in America. The old sailing ship was easing into its berth in a city that had not yet fallen on the hard times that were to come and the glow of lamp and lantern light was flooding out into the twilight of the darkened river. I loved the painting and considered buying it but convinced myself that the price and the inconvenience of bringing the piece back on the plane dictated I not go ahead and make the purchase.
The fact that I am today still thinking about the piece of art is proof that I have often wished that I had gone ahead and suffered the cost and the slight difficulty of returning with the picture and thus have been able to cherish it over the years. It was one of those instances in life when you have to make a choice and seize the moment or it is likely lost forever.
Life is like that, we are faced with choices on a daily basis and we must make a decision to seize the moment or the opportunity is lost forever. Most of the choices are of much greater importance than deciding if one should purchase a particular piece of art, since my life would continue much the same either with or without the painting. Many of those choices however, are life changing as we can see from the bad choices made by many of the current celebrities in the world of sports and politics of late. Faced with an opportunity to resist a bad choice, they failed and chose poorly. It is equally true that many of us when faced with an opportunity to do good linger, lag behind, and lose the opportunity forever. A chance to do the right thing, to make a choice for the right and the good, often comes but once. Another opportunity may present itself, but that moment is gone forever.
Let’s each of us purpose in our own hearts to seize the moment, to do the right thing, to take an opportunity to do make a choice for good when it is presented to us, and not find ourselves contemplating a missed opportunity years later.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Bob
Since we are on a little vacation, I think we might stop in Savannah tomorrow. I am a confirmed history nerd, and I love to visit places with rich history and try to imagine what they might have been like in “the day.” In Savannah’s case you can stroll down the riverfront of the city paved with cobble stones that were shipped to the old city as ballast in belly of sailing vessels that were to take cotton and tobacco back to England. The cotton exchanges and warehouses still stand and the old city cemeteries have interments that date back to those who came with James Oglethorpe in 1733. Not far away one may visit the historic Fort Pulaski which was in turn occupied by both Confederate and Union forces in the War Between the States. Like many of the other various port cities in the United States the riverfront was where the action was and shipping was the name of the game in the newly established colony of Georgia, named after King George of England.
I look forward to strolling along the riverfront and entering the little cafes that line that historic area where one must duck your head to avoid bumping your noggin on doors that were crafted when the average occupant of the city was much shorter (and undoubtedly much lighter) than today.
When we lived in Cleveland, Ohio the riverfront there had been much the same as the riverfront of Savannah in the early 1800s. I remember being on Fisherman’s Warf in San Francisco and seeing a lovely painting entitled “Night Arrival on the Cuyahoga.” The painting depicted the Cleveland Cuyahoga Riverfront as it had been in 1850 when Cleveland was a leading source of iron and steel production and an important industrial city in America. The old sailing ship was easing into its berth in a city that had not yet fallen on the hard times that were to come and the glow of lamp and lantern light was flooding out into the twilight of the darkened river. I loved the painting and considered buying it but convinced myself that the price and the inconvenience of bringing the piece back on the plane dictated I not go ahead and make the purchase.
The fact that I am today still thinking about the piece of art is proof that I have often wished that I had gone ahead and suffered the cost and the slight difficulty of returning with the picture and thus have been able to cherish it over the years. It was one of those instances in life when you have to make a choice and seize the moment or it is likely lost forever.
Life is like that, we are faced with choices on a daily basis and we must make a decision to seize the moment or the opportunity is lost forever. Most of the choices are of much greater importance than deciding if one should purchase a particular piece of art, since my life would continue much the same either with or without the painting. Many of those choices however, are life changing as we can see from the bad choices made by many of the current celebrities in the world of sports and politics of late. Faced with an opportunity to resist a bad choice, they failed and chose poorly. It is equally true that many of us when faced with an opportunity to do good linger, lag behind, and lose the opportunity forever. A chance to do the right thing, to make a choice for the right and the good, often comes but once. Another opportunity may present itself, but that moment is gone forever.
Let’s each of us purpose in our own hearts to seize the moment, to do the right thing, to take an opportunity to do make a choice for good when it is presented to us, and not find ourselves contemplating a missed opportunity years later.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Bob
Monday, March 22, 2010
One Fine Day
Adjusting Our Expectations----------
Sitting in St. Augustine, FL this morning on the beach I have been thinking about how our expectations migrate over the course of a life time. I remember the very first vacation that our family ever took. There were no vacations when we were a farm family, since Whitey and Gernsee the cows, didn’t understand our need for time off. If you were going away from home for even one night, you had to get someone to agree to feed and milk both morning and night, and most likely they had their own feeding and milking to get done.
When Mama and Daddy were store keepers, there was no time off since the store needed to be open from 6 or 7 in the morning until 8 or 9 at night and they were the only operators.
When Daddy finally went to work for the Highway Department (TDOT) after Frank Clement was elected Governor, and Mama went to work for the Steven’s Pants Factory, Daddy was awarded something he had never had before – a formal vacation period. There was a two week shut down at the pants factory, so sometime around 1954 we took our first real “family vacation.”
Aunt Thelma and Uncle U.L. were “home” from Michigan and we all decided to go to the Smokey Mountains National Park which had recently been dedicated to the American people by President Roosevelt. The direct route in those days was to take old Highway 70N east, winding up the backbone of ridges through Cookeville, on through Crossville, passing through Pigeon Forge (which was a non event in those days) and into the small village of Gatlinburg. Gatlinburg was a far cry from what you find there today. There were a few souvenir stands with false fronts and tent rear areas, much like one would find at the carnival and two or three “tourist courts” including one at what is now the end of town closest to the park entrance. We had taken two cars and on the way up stopped at a little roadside joint for a burger, which was a real event for us – we never, never, ate out in those days. In fact, eating out meant taking a watermelon down to the backyard and “eating out.”
I remember that it was a hot July day when we arrived at the chosen motor court and Mama and Daddy took the blankets off the bed and made a pallet for us on the floor, thinking they would not need covers in such hot weather. They had not counted on the thin cool mountain air and none of us slept very much since Mama and Daddy nearly froze before the night was over.
I could never have dreamed then of going to many of the places in the world to which I have been privileged to journey. But then few of us are able to seen into the future clearly enough to set our sights high enough or raise our expectations to a sufficiently high level.
When I hear folks discussing the joys or terrors of the life to come, it often occurs to me that like us in those days, it is impossible for us to set our expectations properly, because our life experience is not rich enough to do so. Just like I would have been unable to picture winding through the canals of Venice, strolling through Tokyo, eating in the finest establishments in Brazil, or driving on the Autobahn, neither am I able to adequately picture the beauty of the Great White Throne, the Streets of Gold, or the City Four Square. Conversely, I am likely unable to grasp the terrors of the Lake of Fire that burns forever.
One day though, one fine day, I hope to see, not through a glass darkly, but face to face and know the joys which my expectations could not imagine.
Have a blessed day, and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Sitting in St. Augustine, FL this morning on the beach I have been thinking about how our expectations migrate over the course of a life time. I remember the very first vacation that our family ever took. There were no vacations when we were a farm family, since Whitey and Gernsee the cows, didn’t understand our need for time off. If you were going away from home for even one night, you had to get someone to agree to feed and milk both morning and night, and most likely they had their own feeding and milking to get done.
When Mama and Daddy were store keepers, there was no time off since the store needed to be open from 6 or 7 in the morning until 8 or 9 at night and they were the only operators.
When Daddy finally went to work for the Highway Department (TDOT) after Frank Clement was elected Governor, and Mama went to work for the Steven’s Pants Factory, Daddy was awarded something he had never had before – a formal vacation period. There was a two week shut down at the pants factory, so sometime around 1954 we took our first real “family vacation.”
Aunt Thelma and Uncle U.L. were “home” from Michigan and we all decided to go to the Smokey Mountains National Park which had recently been dedicated to the American people by President Roosevelt. The direct route in those days was to take old Highway 70N east, winding up the backbone of ridges through Cookeville, on through Crossville, passing through Pigeon Forge (which was a non event in those days) and into the small village of Gatlinburg. Gatlinburg was a far cry from what you find there today. There were a few souvenir stands with false fronts and tent rear areas, much like one would find at the carnival and two or three “tourist courts” including one at what is now the end of town closest to the park entrance. We had taken two cars and on the way up stopped at a little roadside joint for a burger, which was a real event for us – we never, never, ate out in those days. In fact, eating out meant taking a watermelon down to the backyard and “eating out.”
I remember that it was a hot July day when we arrived at the chosen motor court and Mama and Daddy took the blankets off the bed and made a pallet for us on the floor, thinking they would not need covers in such hot weather. They had not counted on the thin cool mountain air and none of us slept very much since Mama and Daddy nearly froze before the night was over.
I could never have dreamed then of going to many of the places in the world to which I have been privileged to journey. But then few of us are able to seen into the future clearly enough to set our sights high enough or raise our expectations to a sufficiently high level.
When I hear folks discussing the joys or terrors of the life to come, it often occurs to me that like us in those days, it is impossible for us to set our expectations properly, because our life experience is not rich enough to do so. Just like I would have been unable to picture winding through the canals of Venice, strolling through Tokyo, eating in the finest establishments in Brazil, or driving on the Autobahn, neither am I able to adequately picture the beauty of the Great White Throne, the Streets of Gold, or the City Four Square. Conversely, I am likely unable to grasp the terrors of the Lake of Fire that burns forever.
One day though, one fine day, I hope to see, not through a glass darkly, but face to face and know the joys which my expectations could not imagine.
Have a blessed day, and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
You Send Me - and If I get the chance, I Send You.
You Send Me -------------
Do you suppose anyone plays croquet anymore? When my sister and I were about 12 and 8 respectively my parents bought us a croquet set. I don’t know what the occasion was, but it was probably either for some special occasion or one of us got it as a reward for some good deed. I do remember that Daddy took us down to the Western Auto Store, where Mr. Clyde White was sitting under the striped awning just outside the front door. He was perched on one of those little short 3 foot ladders having a morning smoke and a cup of coffee as the town came awake. He asked if he could help us and Daddy said, “Well sir, we are looking for a real good croquet set. You got anything like that?”
Now Daddy was one of those people who seldom asked a question unless he already knew the answer and that was the case in this instance. The weekly circular which was tucked inside the Nashville Banner had an advertized special on croquet sets and the price was right. So with our new croquet set tucked in the back of the old grey Buick, Donnieta, Daddy and I rushed home to set up the court.
The rules, as I remember them, were fairly simple. The wire wickets were set up in a double diamond shape with double wickets and a stake at either end of the diamonds. The object was to pass through each wicket in turn and be the first player to return to and hit the stake from which he started. Passing through a wicket gave one an extra turn, passing through two wickets gave one two extra turns, and hitting another players ball gave one two turns.
Hitting another’s ball was where the fun and competitive spirit entered into the fray. A player could take one stroke to set the ball one mallets length from the opponent’s ball in any direction; then use the second stroke to clear a wicket. Or, even more fun, one could use one stroke to snug the ball up to the opponent’s ball that had been hit, put your foot on your own ball and wail away at it which by transferred force sent the opponents ball flying far away from their desired location. Having hit their ball again gave one another two strokes to advance while the opposition tried to recover. We called it “sending” someone’s ball and I always took the opportunity to “send” someone’s ball, even if that play was not strategically sound. I just liked to see the look on their face.
When one of the gas stations on the lower end of town was demolished, Daddy saved the big white reflective hoods from the commercial signage and put them up in our backyard. It became the croquet and badminton court for the neighborhood and many a summer night was spent there with other kids from the neighborhood. I don’t know if anyone plays the game anymore, but if so, it probably is on a Wii version.
It was good clean fun, didn’t require a great deal of skill to participate, satisfied our naturally competitive nature, and allowed us to “knock the stuffing” out of someone’s ball without the act being socially unacceptable. I suppose it was sometimes a metaphor for what we would have liked to do to their head.
Occasionally, we would play “doubles” where we teamed up with another person and tried to work together to bring our “team” in by having both team members round the field of play before anyone else. It not only heightened the amount of strategy required, it made the game more interesting and taught us something about synergy.
I think Christianity is a “team sport” in some ways since each of us has a responsibility not only for ourselves but for “one another.” If you want to be shocked, go and look up the number of instructions given in the New Testament concerning “One Another.” We are instructed to Love One Another, Put Up With (forbear is the bible word) One Another, Consider One Another, and Provoke One Another to Love and Good Works. We are pretty good at Provoking One Another, but often not to Love and Good Works. On and on the instruction goes, making it clear that we have a responsibility to God first, others second, and self last, thus “the first shall be last.”
Let’s be always aware of our responsibility to one another and the good that can be achieved, and reaped, by being part of a community of faith.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN. Bob
Do you suppose anyone plays croquet anymore? When my sister and I were about 12 and 8 respectively my parents bought us a croquet set. I don’t know what the occasion was, but it was probably either for some special occasion or one of us got it as a reward for some good deed. I do remember that Daddy took us down to the Western Auto Store, where Mr. Clyde White was sitting under the striped awning just outside the front door. He was perched on one of those little short 3 foot ladders having a morning smoke and a cup of coffee as the town came awake. He asked if he could help us and Daddy said, “Well sir, we are looking for a real good croquet set. You got anything like that?”
Now Daddy was one of those people who seldom asked a question unless he already knew the answer and that was the case in this instance. The weekly circular which was tucked inside the Nashville Banner had an advertized special on croquet sets and the price was right. So with our new croquet set tucked in the back of the old grey Buick, Donnieta, Daddy and I rushed home to set up the court.
The rules, as I remember them, were fairly simple. The wire wickets were set up in a double diamond shape with double wickets and a stake at either end of the diamonds. The object was to pass through each wicket in turn and be the first player to return to and hit the stake from which he started. Passing through a wicket gave one an extra turn, passing through two wickets gave one two extra turns, and hitting another players ball gave one two turns.
Hitting another’s ball was where the fun and competitive spirit entered into the fray. A player could take one stroke to set the ball one mallets length from the opponent’s ball in any direction; then use the second stroke to clear a wicket. Or, even more fun, one could use one stroke to snug the ball up to the opponent’s ball that had been hit, put your foot on your own ball and wail away at it which by transferred force sent the opponents ball flying far away from their desired location. Having hit their ball again gave one another two strokes to advance while the opposition tried to recover. We called it “sending” someone’s ball and I always took the opportunity to “send” someone’s ball, even if that play was not strategically sound. I just liked to see the look on their face.
When one of the gas stations on the lower end of town was demolished, Daddy saved the big white reflective hoods from the commercial signage and put them up in our backyard. It became the croquet and badminton court for the neighborhood and many a summer night was spent there with other kids from the neighborhood. I don’t know if anyone plays the game anymore, but if so, it probably is on a Wii version.
It was good clean fun, didn’t require a great deal of skill to participate, satisfied our naturally competitive nature, and allowed us to “knock the stuffing” out of someone’s ball without the act being socially unacceptable. I suppose it was sometimes a metaphor for what we would have liked to do to their head.
Occasionally, we would play “doubles” where we teamed up with another person and tried to work together to bring our “team” in by having both team members round the field of play before anyone else. It not only heightened the amount of strategy required, it made the game more interesting and taught us something about synergy.
I think Christianity is a “team sport” in some ways since each of us has a responsibility not only for ourselves but for “one another.” If you want to be shocked, go and look up the number of instructions given in the New Testament concerning “One Another.” We are instructed to Love One Another, Put Up With (forbear is the bible word) One Another, Consider One Another, and Provoke One Another to Love and Good Works. We are pretty good at Provoking One Another, but often not to Love and Good Works. On and on the instruction goes, making it clear that we have a responsibility to God first, others second, and self last, thus “the first shall be last.”
Let’s be always aware of our responsibility to one another and the good that can be achieved, and reaped, by being part of a community of faith.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN. Bob
Thursday, March 11, 2010
It’s a Southern Thing
It’s a Southern Thing.----------
Southerners have a thing about names – nick names and double names. I know that I myself have been called Buddy, Bob, Robert, R.C., and those are only the ones fit for publication. As I think back about our high school we had Skull, Bones, Hard Dog, Bull Dog, Mad Dog, Butch, Buddy, Hound Dog, Monk, Buck, Wish, Pappy, Lecil Diesel, Snookie, Little Bit, Bullhead, Tea Pot, Crip, Wild Bill, Cuck, Boon and a whole host of ones I either cannot remember or am unwilling to commit to print. It was a mark of being an “alright guy” to be called by a nick name and we all fell in line with the expectations of a small town.
We also had Emily Sue, George Lloyd, Charlie Bob, Betty Ann, Betty Jo, Betty Jean, Mary Bell, Mary Ann, Mary Lou, Mary Sue, Velma Jo, Jessie Mai, Martha Ann, Erma Jean and on and on like a whose who of small Southern town debutants.
We spent our afternoons at the Dairy Freeze, our nights at the skating rink under the big tent, and our summers at the swimming pool – or in my case on the farm. A party was when some girl had a group over to play the latest 45 RPM records. The boys (who did not dance) watched while the girls “Bopped” with one another to “Peggy Sue” or “Run Around Sue” or some other record, generally centered around a girl’s name.
Sunday afternoons were spent “riding around” in whoever was lucky enough to get the family station wagon, or have their own jalopy.
“Wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, wha’da’you wanna do?”
“I don know”
The only thing we knew for sure was we did not want to go home where parental questioning and homework awaited. So, five hours later –
“Well, wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, time for me to go’ta church”
“see ya”
Or perhaps we would go to the Dairy Queen and see if any girls were “riding around,” if so we could perhaps make some swaps and end up “riding around” with girls instead of just each other. That sounded like a much better plan, but was seldom fully executed since all of the girls old enough to go to the Dairy Queen or be “riding around,” soon were snapped up by older guys who were “riding around” in much nicer cars.
Occasionally we actually left town and went “riding around” in Lebanon or Hartsville, which was a risky pastime since the local boys were defending their turf and had home court advantage anyway. Sometime it resulted in an invitation by one or more of the other town’s football team to leave under your own steam or take the consequences. Don’t know what the consequences were, since my buddies and I always left without taking the time to find out the alternative.
Less frequently, we ended up doing something really dumb like climbing the old metal water tank with CARTHAGE painted in black letters, and tossing pebbles down on Mr. Mack’s roof just to see him run out and look in all directions but up.
Yeah, Sundays were slow and names were important and to some extent small southern towns are still like they were 50 years ago. Names are still important and Sundays are still slow. We still think it is important to wear the name Christian and we Slow Down long enough to stop and assemble with others to worship God. Don’t you wish everywhere was still like this?
Have a blessed day, Bob
Southerners have a thing about names – nick names and double names. I know that I myself have been called Buddy, Bob, Robert, R.C., and those are only the ones fit for publication. As I think back about our high school we had Skull, Bones, Hard Dog, Bull Dog, Mad Dog, Butch, Buddy, Hound Dog, Monk, Buck, Wish, Pappy, Lecil Diesel, Snookie, Little Bit, Bullhead, Tea Pot, Crip, Wild Bill, Cuck, Boon and a whole host of ones I either cannot remember or am unwilling to commit to print. It was a mark of being an “alright guy” to be called by a nick name and we all fell in line with the expectations of a small town.
We also had Emily Sue, George Lloyd, Charlie Bob, Betty Ann, Betty Jo, Betty Jean, Mary Bell, Mary Ann, Mary Lou, Mary Sue, Velma Jo, Jessie Mai, Martha Ann, Erma Jean and on and on like a whose who of small Southern town debutants.
We spent our afternoons at the Dairy Freeze, our nights at the skating rink under the big tent, and our summers at the swimming pool – or in my case on the farm. A party was when some girl had a group over to play the latest 45 RPM records. The boys (who did not dance) watched while the girls “Bopped” with one another to “Peggy Sue” or “Run Around Sue” or some other record, generally centered around a girl’s name.
Sunday afternoons were spent “riding around” in whoever was lucky enough to get the family station wagon, or have their own jalopy.
“Wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, wha’da’you wanna do?”
“I don know”
The only thing we knew for sure was we did not want to go home where parental questioning and homework awaited. So, five hours later –
“Well, wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, time for me to go’ta church”
“see ya”
Or perhaps we would go to the Dairy Queen and see if any girls were “riding around,” if so we could perhaps make some swaps and end up “riding around” with girls instead of just each other. That sounded like a much better plan, but was seldom fully executed since all of the girls old enough to go to the Dairy Queen or be “riding around,” soon were snapped up by older guys who were “riding around” in much nicer cars.
Occasionally we actually left town and went “riding around” in Lebanon or Hartsville, which was a risky pastime since the local boys were defending their turf and had home court advantage anyway. Sometime it resulted in an invitation by one or more of the other town’s football team to leave under your own steam or take the consequences. Don’t know what the consequences were, since my buddies and I always left without taking the time to find out the alternative.
Less frequently, we ended up doing something really dumb like climbing the old metal water tank with CARTHAGE painted in black letters, and tossing pebbles down on Mr. Mack’s roof just to see him run out and look in all directions but up.
Yeah, Sundays were slow and names were important and to some extent small southern towns are still like they were 50 years ago. Names are still important and Sundays are still slow. We still think it is important to wear the name Christian and we Slow Down long enough to stop and assemble with others to worship God. Don’t you wish everywhere was still like this?
Have a blessed day, Bob
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Remembering Freshman Year 1958
Freshmen Green
Do you remember your first day in high school? I do, and I was only slightly less frightened than I was the first day of elementary school. We had all gone to seventh and eighth grade in “the old building” which sat where the wings of Smith County High School are now. :”The old building” had been the elementary school (or grade school) prior to building the new Carthage Elementary School which sat to the east of the High School and underneath the big old town water tower which has since been torn down. “The old building” housed Mr. MacDonald and Mr. Homer Lewis’ eighth grade classes and Mr. Hackett’s seventh grade class. The band room occupied a large portion of the building and we practiced in an odd shaped room that had no acoustic aptitude for this purpose. Now that I think of it, it probably had as much aptitude as we did though. There must have been some other functions in the building but I no longer remember what they were, if you do let me know.
The baby boom had hit Carthage with a resounding smack and by the time the new elementary school was finished, it had already been outgrown. Since a number of the lower grades had to be separated into two classes the big kids had been pushed out into the old building which was still heated room by room and had big stoves in the classrooms. Occasionally Mr. Hackett had been known to chuck a small lump of coal at a student that was not paying attention. I remember that while we were in the old building, phones were installed in the class room and some of the boys learned how to insert a pin through the wire and make the phone ring incessantly. Another major pastime was flushing Mr. Mack’s ever present hat, down the toilet. This usually brought an ongoing investigation and inquisition which put several students on the spot but allowed the rest of us to goof off for the balance of the day. Oh me, I don’t know why those kids acted like that.
Having been that close to the high school, it would seem we would have already been used to the routine there, but high school was another world. In the first place, all of us who had been together since first grade, were about to be joined by students from Cox Davis, Forks of the River, South Carthage, Pleasant Shade, Defeated, and Union Heights. I am sure I missed some but can’t remember what they are right now. We only knew these kids from the grade school basketball tournaments and that was minimal.
I spent the entire summer dreading high school. I had heard from Don Taylor, George Lankford, Walter Booker, Danny Williams and others about the “Teddilo Fee” which upper classmen exacted from freshmen, a kind of protection money that was collected at the door to the school in order to get inside. The other source of concern was the “Belt Lines” you were sometimes required to run through to get inside the building. I had seen the belt lines from the windows of our eighth grade room where timid looking freshmen were forced to run through at breakneck speed while upper classmen poured on the pepper, and the rumor system was filled with stories of boys who used the buckle end of the belt and did considerable damage to delicate parts of freshmen boys.
When I arrived, there were in fact a few upperclassmen hanging around who asked for the Teddilo Fee. I just told them I didn’t have any money, which was basically absolutely true, and pushed my way through. “Well, we’ll take it out of you hide in the belt line then,” was the sarcastic reply.
The first thing I learned was that somewhere someone was responsible for making sure your class schedule required you to run from one end of the building to the other at each class period break, and since our school had two stories, one class would be upstairs and the next down. I never understood by what formula they were able to work that out - must have been a mathmatical formula.
There were very definite rules about how you were to go up the stairs and how you were to go down, and which stairs were to be used for ascending and which were to be used for descending. These were not written down however, and every freshman got it wrong for about the first two weeks. But the survival instinct soon kicked in and you learned when to go up and where to go down. Then there was the great challenge of opening the combination on your locker without getting stuffed inside by a couple of senior boys.
During my first year of high school (1959) “the old building” was torn down and the new wings were finished which included the Band Room on the end closest to the football field and a new Cafeteria in the other wing. While that construction was being finished we had the band room in Mr. Bastion’s Ag Room, underneath the auditorium. Our acoustics had gone from awful to worse.
Well, as often is the case, most of my fears turned out to be unfounded. The Belt Line had been abolished, I never paid a fee to anyone, and the kids from the county schools turned out to be super nice. As I look through the years it has become difficult to remember who came from which school. To this day they remain cherished friends.
We are always a little apprehensive about something new, but one day we will be called by a New Name, we will sing a New Song, and we will walk in a New Body if daily we live with the New King and in the New Kingdom. I think we have no reason to be apprehensive of that which is new. 17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new. 2 Corinthians 5:17
Have a blessed day, Bob
Do you remember your first day in high school? I do, and I was only slightly less frightened than I was the first day of elementary school. We had all gone to seventh and eighth grade in “the old building” which sat where the wings of Smith County High School are now. :”The old building” had been the elementary school (or grade school) prior to building the new Carthage Elementary School which sat to the east of the High School and underneath the big old town water tower which has since been torn down. “The old building” housed Mr. MacDonald and Mr. Homer Lewis’ eighth grade classes and Mr. Hackett’s seventh grade class. The band room occupied a large portion of the building and we practiced in an odd shaped room that had no acoustic aptitude for this purpose. Now that I think of it, it probably had as much aptitude as we did though. There must have been some other functions in the building but I no longer remember what they were, if you do let me know.
The baby boom had hit Carthage with a resounding smack and by the time the new elementary school was finished, it had already been outgrown. Since a number of the lower grades had to be separated into two classes the big kids had been pushed out into the old building which was still heated room by room and had big stoves in the classrooms. Occasionally Mr. Hackett had been known to chuck a small lump of coal at a student that was not paying attention. I remember that while we were in the old building, phones were installed in the class room and some of the boys learned how to insert a pin through the wire and make the phone ring incessantly. Another major pastime was flushing Mr. Mack’s ever present hat, down the toilet. This usually brought an ongoing investigation and inquisition which put several students on the spot but allowed the rest of us to goof off for the balance of the day. Oh me, I don’t know why those kids acted like that.
Having been that close to the high school, it would seem we would have already been used to the routine there, but high school was another world. In the first place, all of us who had been together since first grade, were about to be joined by students from Cox Davis, Forks of the River, South Carthage, Pleasant Shade, Defeated, and Union Heights. I am sure I missed some but can’t remember what they are right now. We only knew these kids from the grade school basketball tournaments and that was minimal.
I spent the entire summer dreading high school. I had heard from Don Taylor, George Lankford, Walter Booker, Danny Williams and others about the “Teddilo Fee” which upper classmen exacted from freshmen, a kind of protection money that was collected at the door to the school in order to get inside. The other source of concern was the “Belt Lines” you were sometimes required to run through to get inside the building. I had seen the belt lines from the windows of our eighth grade room where timid looking freshmen were forced to run through at breakneck speed while upper classmen poured on the pepper, and the rumor system was filled with stories of boys who used the buckle end of the belt and did considerable damage to delicate parts of freshmen boys.
When I arrived, there were in fact a few upperclassmen hanging around who asked for the Teddilo Fee. I just told them I didn’t have any money, which was basically absolutely true, and pushed my way through. “Well, we’ll take it out of you hide in the belt line then,” was the sarcastic reply.
The first thing I learned was that somewhere someone was responsible for making sure your class schedule required you to run from one end of the building to the other at each class period break, and since our school had two stories, one class would be upstairs and the next down. I never understood by what formula they were able to work that out - must have been a mathmatical formula.
There were very definite rules about how you were to go up the stairs and how you were to go down, and which stairs were to be used for ascending and which were to be used for descending. These were not written down however, and every freshman got it wrong for about the first two weeks. But the survival instinct soon kicked in and you learned when to go up and where to go down. Then there was the great challenge of opening the combination on your locker without getting stuffed inside by a couple of senior boys.
During my first year of high school (1959) “the old building” was torn down and the new wings were finished which included the Band Room on the end closest to the football field and a new Cafeteria in the other wing. While that construction was being finished we had the band room in Mr. Bastion’s Ag Room, underneath the auditorium. Our acoustics had gone from awful to worse.
Well, as often is the case, most of my fears turned out to be unfounded. The Belt Line had been abolished, I never paid a fee to anyone, and the kids from the county schools turned out to be super nice. As I look through the years it has become difficult to remember who came from which school. To this day they remain cherished friends.
We are always a little apprehensive about something new, but one day we will be called by a New Name, we will sing a New Song, and we will walk in a New Body if daily we live with the New King and in the New Kingdom. I think we have no reason to be apprehensive of that which is new. 17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new. 2 Corinthians 5:17
Have a blessed day, Bob
Monday, March 8, 2010
Beach Bend Bound in a 57 Ford
Senior Trip----------
The concept of the “Senior Trip” was a bit different for the class of 1962 at Smith County High School than what kids think of as a Senior Trip these days. In the 1970s it was a tour bus trip to Washington D.C. where you could meet with your congressman stay in a Holiday Inn, and get to gaze on the sights of the nation’s capitol. In the 1980’s and 1990s it was to morph into 6 teenagers stuffed into a 10 year old Chevy doing a 24 hour driving trip to Florida or somewhere warm at Spring Break. No parents invited or adult supervision allowed and accommodations were your spot on the floor of a bare bones motel. Beer and Bologna were the staples for most of these breakers and staying out of jail a priority. These days it is more than likely a flight to Cancun, St. John’s Island, or Aruba, or some other exotic location where the Seniors bake away the stress of high school academic life.
In 1962 our Senior Trip consisted of having the day off from school and going to Horn Springs Swimming Pool, 30 miles away in Lebanon, Tennessee. The deluxe accommodations included all expenses paid transportation via the big yellow jobs that had “Smith County Schools” painted on the side in big black letters.
It was a beautiful day in May when our Senior Trip came to pass and a few of us were less than satisfied with going to Horn Springs. My friend George Lankford had gotten a white, 1957 Ford Fairlane Convertible and he proposed that a few of us do something far more daring and exotic than Horn Springs. He proposed that our little group go to Beach Bend Park outside Bowling Green, KY. Beach Bend had more to do, it was about 50 miles away, and it was in another state. Just the sound of and out of state adventure made it more exciting, besides it was not where we were supposed to go.
So, five of us piled into the white convertible and headed out down highway 25 toward Dixon Springs. I can’t remember all of the other perps but I am pretty sure Sammy Wilburn and James Manning were along for this ride.
I was pretty nervous about going but George, in that persuasive manner that was his, assured me that we would be back by the time the others got home from Horn Springs and no one would even notice. George was one of those A Table in the cafeteria people who was loaded with an extra measure of charisma. He was always being voted Freshman Favorite, Suavest Sophomore, Jubilant Junior or some such thing. He was a born leader and I was always in awe of the fact that he had anything to do with me at all. But we had been friends since grade school and, contrary to all logic, he seemed always ready to include me in something cool. He was the reason I said ok; I didn’t want to be an old man of 50 years (oh yeah, that is the way we thought) and regret the fact that I missed the opportunity to do something cool with George for Senior Trip – besides George had assured me that no one would know anyway. (I later learned that my mother, working at the shirt factory, knew that the five of us were headed for Beach Bend before we even left town; It is a very small town – what can I say.)
We had the top down, and I soon learned that riding in the back seat of a convertible with the top down was different in practice than it appeared in movies. By the time we hit the state line headed up highway 231 my face and somewhat prominent ears were done to a turn and I hadn’t been able to draw a good breath in 30 minutes. We finally reached Beach Bend and as we drove on and on, our destination had begun to seem a lot further to me than I though it would be and I was having a hard time ignoring the fact that I was way out of the territory in which I was allowed to circulate. Not only had I transgressed I had done it telling Mama I was going one place and heading another. It was a MORTAL SIN in my way of thinking and I was pretty sure by this time, this adventure was not going to turn out well.
Well, to make a long story short, it did not. We spent most of the day at the roller skating rink and met a couple of girls who weren’t ugly and seemed mildly interested in some of the guys. They decided that we should drive them home. Since there were five of us, two of us had to wait at Beech Bend Park while the others drove those girls home. They must have lived in Ohio because the park was closing by the time George returned and it was already near the magic 11:00 p.m. hour that required me to make a call home. Unfortunately my cell phone wasn’t working and would not for about another 40 years, so my call home was out of the question.
George had started having big eyes for Pat, who would later become his wife and he was unable to pass through Hartsville without stopping at her house.
When we finally got back to Carthage, It was 2:00 a.m. and when I slipped silently into the house, Mama was there lying on the couch, awake, MAD.
I was a nervous wreck by that time already, because I knew that this moment was going to be the outcome from about 7:00 p.m. and had actually enjoyed myself only about two hours of the entire day.
Over the years, I have tried to discern whether I am glad I went on that trip and have that memory, or sorry I went and distressed my mom and dad who certainly did not deserve waiting on pins and needles until 2:00 a.m. (Well, actually Daddy was sleeping on the bed, but perhaps he was not sleeping very soundly.)
Now as I think this through, knowing that there are probably only a couple of the ones who made that trip still left when the “Class of 62” reunions take place, I can’t help but feel glad that I have this memory. I sure did hate to disappoint Mama though. Not that I was worried about what would happen, I knew that no severe punishment was in the offing, but seeing the disappointed look on her face when she said, “You told me you were going to Horn Springs, and I believed you,” was the greatest punishment of all.
I guess it is true what the Apostle John wrote, “perfect love casts out fear.” Perfect love does not cast out misery, however. I realized that my desire to please Mama had moved from fear of punishment to the respect and relationship of love. It has taken a few more years to attain that relationship with God.
Have a blessed day, Bob
The concept of the “Senior Trip” was a bit different for the class of 1962 at Smith County High School than what kids think of as a Senior Trip these days. In the 1970s it was a tour bus trip to Washington D.C. where you could meet with your congressman stay in a Holiday Inn, and get to gaze on the sights of the nation’s capitol. In the 1980’s and 1990s it was to morph into 6 teenagers stuffed into a 10 year old Chevy doing a 24 hour driving trip to Florida or somewhere warm at Spring Break. No parents invited or adult supervision allowed and accommodations were your spot on the floor of a bare bones motel. Beer and Bologna were the staples for most of these breakers and staying out of jail a priority. These days it is more than likely a flight to Cancun, St. John’s Island, or Aruba, or some other exotic location where the Seniors bake away the stress of high school academic life.
In 1962 our Senior Trip consisted of having the day off from school and going to Horn Springs Swimming Pool, 30 miles away in Lebanon, Tennessee. The deluxe accommodations included all expenses paid transportation via the big yellow jobs that had “Smith County Schools” painted on the side in big black letters.
It was a beautiful day in May when our Senior Trip came to pass and a few of us were less than satisfied with going to Horn Springs. My friend George Lankford had gotten a white, 1957 Ford Fairlane Convertible and he proposed that a few of us do something far more daring and exotic than Horn Springs. He proposed that our little group go to Beach Bend Park outside Bowling Green, KY. Beach Bend had more to do, it was about 50 miles away, and it was in another state. Just the sound of and out of state adventure made it more exciting, besides it was not where we were supposed to go.
So, five of us piled into the white convertible and headed out down highway 25 toward Dixon Springs. I can’t remember all of the other perps but I am pretty sure Sammy Wilburn and James Manning were along for this ride.
I was pretty nervous about going but George, in that persuasive manner that was his, assured me that we would be back by the time the others got home from Horn Springs and no one would even notice. George was one of those A Table in the cafeteria people who was loaded with an extra measure of charisma. He was always being voted Freshman Favorite, Suavest Sophomore, Jubilant Junior or some such thing. He was a born leader and I was always in awe of the fact that he had anything to do with me at all. But we had been friends since grade school and, contrary to all logic, he seemed always ready to include me in something cool. He was the reason I said ok; I didn’t want to be an old man of 50 years (oh yeah, that is the way we thought) and regret the fact that I missed the opportunity to do something cool with George for Senior Trip – besides George had assured me that no one would know anyway. (I later learned that my mother, working at the shirt factory, knew that the five of us were headed for Beach Bend before we even left town; It is a very small town – what can I say.)
We had the top down, and I soon learned that riding in the back seat of a convertible with the top down was different in practice than it appeared in movies. By the time we hit the state line headed up highway 231 my face and somewhat prominent ears were done to a turn and I hadn’t been able to draw a good breath in 30 minutes. We finally reached Beach Bend and as we drove on and on, our destination had begun to seem a lot further to me than I though it would be and I was having a hard time ignoring the fact that I was way out of the territory in which I was allowed to circulate. Not only had I transgressed I had done it telling Mama I was going one place and heading another. It was a MORTAL SIN in my way of thinking and I was pretty sure by this time, this adventure was not going to turn out well.
Well, to make a long story short, it did not. We spent most of the day at the roller skating rink and met a couple of girls who weren’t ugly and seemed mildly interested in some of the guys. They decided that we should drive them home. Since there were five of us, two of us had to wait at Beech Bend Park while the others drove those girls home. They must have lived in Ohio because the park was closing by the time George returned and it was already near the magic 11:00 p.m. hour that required me to make a call home. Unfortunately my cell phone wasn’t working and would not for about another 40 years, so my call home was out of the question.
George had started having big eyes for Pat, who would later become his wife and he was unable to pass through Hartsville without stopping at her house.
When we finally got back to Carthage, It was 2:00 a.m. and when I slipped silently into the house, Mama was there lying on the couch, awake, MAD.
I was a nervous wreck by that time already, because I knew that this moment was going to be the outcome from about 7:00 p.m. and had actually enjoyed myself only about two hours of the entire day.
Over the years, I have tried to discern whether I am glad I went on that trip and have that memory, or sorry I went and distressed my mom and dad who certainly did not deserve waiting on pins and needles until 2:00 a.m. (Well, actually Daddy was sleeping on the bed, but perhaps he was not sleeping very soundly.)
Now as I think this through, knowing that there are probably only a couple of the ones who made that trip still left when the “Class of 62” reunions take place, I can’t help but feel glad that I have this memory. I sure did hate to disappoint Mama though. Not that I was worried about what would happen, I knew that no severe punishment was in the offing, but seeing the disappointed look on her face when she said, “You told me you were going to Horn Springs, and I believed you,” was the greatest punishment of all.
I guess it is true what the Apostle John wrote, “perfect love casts out fear.” Perfect love does not cast out misery, however. I realized that my desire to please Mama had moved from fear of punishment to the respect and relationship of love. It has taken a few more years to attain that relationship with God.
Have a blessed day, Bob
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