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
Thursday, April 29, 2010
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
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Oklahoma Baptists with Middle Tennessee Roots.
More Cousin Barney on Hughes County Oklahoma Baptists-------------------
Ever so often I get a story from someone who gives me permission to pass it on to you. This one is from Barney Smith a distant cousin of the Gentry persuasion whose family went to Oklahoma and then on to Texas. He tell about country life as a Baptist Boy and except for the name “Baptist” and the piano in the corner could have been any rural church of Christ in the Upper Cumberland of Tennessee.
Hughes County Baptists-------
Since I am an old dude nearly seventy years old, I hope no one will hold any inaccuracies or well meaning prevarications against me as I relate this minor piece of history concerning Hughes County, Oklahoma. My earliest recollections of this area was about 1945 and the country was still finishing up World War II. My ancestors on both sides of my family migrated to Oklahoma almost immediately after it (the “Indian Territory”) was opened up to whites in the last two decades of the 19th century. They came from Tennessee, Georgia, Indiana and Texas and most of them were escaping the conditions of the aftermath of the civil war. Some of them participated in the Land Runs and all of them came with the hope of cheap land. They were all poor and they were all Baptists of one stripe or another. Most of them were “tenant farmers” and would get upset if someone referred to them as a “sharecropper”. Sharecroppers and tenant farmers both rented farms on a percentage basis, usually from a bank or wealthy landowner. Tenant farmers owned their own equipment and a couple of mules or draft horses and the equipment was very primitive, usually consisting of a middle buster, harrow, cultivator, wagon , and cotton planter. All of these devices were horse drawn. A Sharecropper had no equipment and was therefore more at the mercy of his landlord. Truth to tell, there was very little difference in a sharecropper and a tenant farmer. Most of the farms were 40 acres and very seldom exceeded 80 acres. Most of the families that existed on theses farms had eight or nine kids and all were expected to contribute to the well being of the family. Today they would be referred to as “subsistence” farmers but in rural Oklahoma it was a way of life.
They lived in seven or eight hundred square foot houses that were plenty cold and drafty with no lights or heat except a wood stove. They mostly ate & slept there with all of their daylight hours being taken up by farm chores. A boy that hung around the house all the time was generally considered sissified. A girl could get away with it if she helped her mother. By 1930, the “okies” had pretty much worn out the land with their poor farming practices. On top of that, it didn’t rain much in the thirties and the dust bowl and depression were in full force. Electricity did not come to rural Hughes County until about 1946 and at the same time Hughes County sons were returning from World War II. My father and several uncles and cousins were all involved in that great struggle and blessedly all returned home unscathed and the resulting reunions stand out in my mind. But things changed in a big way after that as they all found jobs and opportunities in larger cities. Almost none of them stayed in Hughes County but my grandparents on both sides of my family stayed there for the rest of their lives.
As rural and backward as it sometimes was, rural life in Hughes County boasted communities that were real and caring places. Each community was dominated by a Baptist Church and everyone attended. One side of my family was Missionary Baptist and another side was Freewill Baptist and some of them had Primitive Baptist leanings. None of these churches had a full time preacher and Sunday services were usually performed by itinerant preachers. Some of these preachers returned from time to time and were well known in a lot of the communities. Some of their preaching was pretty good and some of it would scare the daylights out of you. I recall Brother Riley Simpson who preached at Prairie View Baptist once in awhile and affected an English accent. He began every service in the same manner. “I am indeed happy to be here”. When he said it, it sounded like he was “hoppy” to be here and it would cause suppressed giggling among the younger set. I recall him telling about Balaam and his talking donkey. Balaam was beating this recalcitrant beast when God had an angel speak to Balaam through the donkey. Brother Simpson who of course had no public address system was warming to the story and he thundered, “God did not speak directly to Balaam.” Then he said it, “God was speaking through Balaam's (donkey, only he didn't say donkey)”. Well!! It was mighty quiet for a minute or two and it seemed to me that for some reason everyone had to cough. One or two were “coughing” so hard that they had to leave the building. Most of these churches purchased Sunday School materials from the Southern Baptist Convention but otherwise had little to do with them. They would have been appalled at having any organization telling them how to run their church or what to believe. Except for a piano, they for some reason, did not countenance musical instruments at church. They would have been dumbfounded at the idea of building a gymnasium or buying a fleet of buses. They had outdoor segregated restrooms and the church property had no fancy landscaping. The church building and grounds were kept in immaculate condition by the members of the congregation. My grandfather mowed the grass every Saturday so it would look presentable Sunday morning. Most of the community attended church twice on Sunday and again on Wednesday evening (prayer meeting). Nobody loves ice cream more than a Baptist so there was an “ice cream social” usually about once a month at someone’s home. These were wonderful affairs where there would be several different kinds of homemade ice cream and if it was late summer, someone would bring four or five 50 or 60 pound watermelons. Everyone would be outside and the kids would be all sugared up and going nuts.
Anti alcohol pledges were part and parcel of all these communities. My Grandpa & Grandma Smith attended Big Spring Missionary Baptist Church and their parents helped found this church. Grandpa was a deacon and Grandma played the piano and led the singing for 40 years. Grandma put together a quartet with her friends and for awhile played 15 minutes a week on McAlester radio. This little show was of course sponsored by a funeral home. I loved spending weeks in the summer when we would travel to churches all over the county to “singings”. Unfortunately none of this talent rubbed off on me but I have had a love for gospel and traditional music all my life. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t believe in working on Sunday. Grandpa told me that he plowed on a Sunday one year and his crop failed. Grandma would get up about 5am on Sunday and fix breakfast while Grandpa did the barn chores. After breakfast she started on Sunday dinner. All on a wood burning stove. Seemed like working to me. She was usually the congregant that enticed the preacher home for Sunday dinner and was always pleased if she could feed the preacher. Nobody ever heard of lunch. We ate breakfast, dinner & supper. Grandma was a wonderful cook and always fixed fried chicken on Sunday. Chicken was not an everyday affair like it is now. Chicken was reserved for Sunday and any preacher that ever had my grandma’s fried chicken would be back. Daddy told of coming home late on Saturday nights and finding a preacher in his bed. He knew what Jimmy Dickens was singing about when he sang “Sleeping at the foot of the bed”. It was a way of life that is gone for good now. All The churches are gone and the little farms have been absorbed into cattle ranches.
Barney Smith
4/2010
Barney, I would have thought they taught those preachers how to love fried chicken in preacher school, but in those days most Baptist Preachers around here didn’t go to preacher school. They were “called to preach” and my dad in a most politically incorrect way, opined that “seems like those Baptists always get called during tobacco cutting season.” He like to tell the story of one young fellow down in west Tennessee who came in and told his Daddy, “Pap, I think I just got the call to preach.”
“Why’s that?” the old man inquired.
“I saw a sign up in the sky, clouds that formed the letters GPC, and I figured it meant “Go Preach Christ.”
“Well, see that is where you are ignorant of the facts, that meant Go Plow Cotton, now get back out there.”
Appreciate the story Barney, keep them coming. Bob
Ever so often I get a story from someone who gives me permission to pass it on to you. This one is from Barney Smith a distant cousin of the Gentry persuasion whose family went to Oklahoma and then on to Texas. He tell about country life as a Baptist Boy and except for the name “Baptist” and the piano in the corner could have been any rural church of Christ in the Upper Cumberland of Tennessee.
Hughes County Baptists-------
Since I am an old dude nearly seventy years old, I hope no one will hold any inaccuracies or well meaning prevarications against me as I relate this minor piece of history concerning Hughes County, Oklahoma. My earliest recollections of this area was about 1945 and the country was still finishing up World War II. My ancestors on both sides of my family migrated to Oklahoma almost immediately after it (the “Indian Territory”) was opened up to whites in the last two decades of the 19th century. They came from Tennessee, Georgia, Indiana and Texas and most of them were escaping the conditions of the aftermath of the civil war. Some of them participated in the Land Runs and all of them came with the hope of cheap land. They were all poor and they were all Baptists of one stripe or another. Most of them were “tenant farmers” and would get upset if someone referred to them as a “sharecropper”. Sharecroppers and tenant farmers both rented farms on a percentage basis, usually from a bank or wealthy landowner. Tenant farmers owned their own equipment and a couple of mules or draft horses and the equipment was very primitive, usually consisting of a middle buster, harrow, cultivator, wagon , and cotton planter. All of these devices were horse drawn. A Sharecropper had no equipment and was therefore more at the mercy of his landlord. Truth to tell, there was very little difference in a sharecropper and a tenant farmer. Most of the farms were 40 acres and very seldom exceeded 80 acres. Most of the families that existed on theses farms had eight or nine kids and all were expected to contribute to the well being of the family. Today they would be referred to as “subsistence” farmers but in rural Oklahoma it was a way of life.
They lived in seven or eight hundred square foot houses that were plenty cold and drafty with no lights or heat except a wood stove. They mostly ate & slept there with all of their daylight hours being taken up by farm chores. A boy that hung around the house all the time was generally considered sissified. A girl could get away with it if she helped her mother. By 1930, the “okies” had pretty much worn out the land with their poor farming practices. On top of that, it didn’t rain much in the thirties and the dust bowl and depression were in full force. Electricity did not come to rural Hughes County until about 1946 and at the same time Hughes County sons were returning from World War II. My father and several uncles and cousins were all involved in that great struggle and blessedly all returned home unscathed and the resulting reunions stand out in my mind. But things changed in a big way after that as they all found jobs and opportunities in larger cities. Almost none of them stayed in Hughes County but my grandparents on both sides of my family stayed there for the rest of their lives.
As rural and backward as it sometimes was, rural life in Hughes County boasted communities that were real and caring places. Each community was dominated by a Baptist Church and everyone attended. One side of my family was Missionary Baptist and another side was Freewill Baptist and some of them had Primitive Baptist leanings. None of these churches had a full time preacher and Sunday services were usually performed by itinerant preachers. Some of these preachers returned from time to time and were well known in a lot of the communities. Some of their preaching was pretty good and some of it would scare the daylights out of you. I recall Brother Riley Simpson who preached at Prairie View Baptist once in awhile and affected an English accent. He began every service in the same manner. “I am indeed happy to be here”. When he said it, it sounded like he was “hoppy” to be here and it would cause suppressed giggling among the younger set. I recall him telling about Balaam and his talking donkey. Balaam was beating this recalcitrant beast when God had an angel speak to Balaam through the donkey. Brother Simpson who of course had no public address system was warming to the story and he thundered, “God did not speak directly to Balaam.” Then he said it, “God was speaking through Balaam's (donkey, only he didn't say donkey)”. Well!! It was mighty quiet for a minute or two and it seemed to me that for some reason everyone had to cough. One or two were “coughing” so hard that they had to leave the building. Most of these churches purchased Sunday School materials from the Southern Baptist Convention but otherwise had little to do with them. They would have been appalled at having any organization telling them how to run their church or what to believe. Except for a piano, they for some reason, did not countenance musical instruments at church. They would have been dumbfounded at the idea of building a gymnasium or buying a fleet of buses. They had outdoor segregated restrooms and the church property had no fancy landscaping. The church building and grounds were kept in immaculate condition by the members of the congregation. My grandfather mowed the grass every Saturday so it would look presentable Sunday morning. Most of the community attended church twice on Sunday and again on Wednesday evening (prayer meeting). Nobody loves ice cream more than a Baptist so there was an “ice cream social” usually about once a month at someone’s home. These were wonderful affairs where there would be several different kinds of homemade ice cream and if it was late summer, someone would bring four or five 50 or 60 pound watermelons. Everyone would be outside and the kids would be all sugared up and going nuts.
Anti alcohol pledges were part and parcel of all these communities. My Grandpa & Grandma Smith attended Big Spring Missionary Baptist Church and their parents helped found this church. Grandpa was a deacon and Grandma played the piano and led the singing for 40 years. Grandma put together a quartet with her friends and for awhile played 15 minutes a week on McAlester radio. This little show was of course sponsored by a funeral home. I loved spending weeks in the summer when we would travel to churches all over the county to “singings”. Unfortunately none of this talent rubbed off on me but I have had a love for gospel and traditional music all my life. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t believe in working on Sunday. Grandpa told me that he plowed on a Sunday one year and his crop failed. Grandma would get up about 5am on Sunday and fix breakfast while Grandpa did the barn chores. After breakfast she started on Sunday dinner. All on a wood burning stove. Seemed like working to me. She was usually the congregant that enticed the preacher home for Sunday dinner and was always pleased if she could feed the preacher. Nobody ever heard of lunch. We ate breakfast, dinner & supper. Grandma was a wonderful cook and always fixed fried chicken on Sunday. Chicken was not an everyday affair like it is now. Chicken was reserved for Sunday and any preacher that ever had my grandma’s fried chicken would be back. Daddy told of coming home late on Saturday nights and finding a preacher in his bed. He knew what Jimmy Dickens was singing about when he sang “Sleeping at the foot of the bed”. It was a way of life that is gone for good now. All The churches are gone and the little farms have been absorbed into cattle ranches.
Barney Smith
4/2010
Barney, I would have thought they taught those preachers how to love fried chicken in preacher school, but in those days most Baptist Preachers around here didn’t go to preacher school. They were “called to preach” and my dad in a most politically incorrect way, opined that “seems like those Baptists always get called during tobacco cutting season.” He like to tell the story of one young fellow down in west Tennessee who came in and told his Daddy, “Pap, I think I just got the call to preach.”
“Why’s that?” the old man inquired.
“I saw a sign up in the sky, clouds that formed the letters GPC, and I figured it meant “Go Preach Christ.”
“Well, see that is where you are ignorant of the facts, that meant Go Plow Cotton, now get back out there.”
Appreciate the story Barney, keep them coming. Bob
Friday, April 2, 2010
A Foolish Question at Mingus Mill
Ask a Foolish Question--------
When on vacation a few days ago with my son Christopher and his family, we stopped at the Mingus Mill, a grist mill on the North Carolina side of the Smokey Mountains. The “miller” was a man several year my junior and he and I began talking about the days of “taking a turn of corn to mill.” I told him that my Great Granddaddy Marlin Young had been both a miller and a distillery operator. It was not back-holler moonshine still but a government licensed operation, the paperwork for which is still in the hands of my son Patrick for safe keeping. It was not an unusual arrangement since typically the miller took a “toll” for grinding a customer’s corn or wheat, which amounted to 1/8th of the amount ground. By turning the ground grain into whiskey, my Scotch/Irish ancestor leveraged his trades and multiplied his profits – perhaps ten times. It was a smooth running operation until Great Grandma Young got religion and was baptized into the church of Christ. She quickly became uncomfortable with her husband being in that line of work and after seeing a “vision” of a government inspector, whom no one else saw; she exercised her wifely influence and convinced Grandpa Marlin to shut down the still for good.
The “miller” at Mingus Mill asked if I still had the toll box or if the mill still existed and I sadly explained that it did not, rather that it had fallen victim to a “freshet” or flood sometime early in the last century and all we have now is paperwork and a picture or two of the mill. I told him that I did however, remember “taking a turn of corn to mill” when we lived in Smith County and explained that it was in the town of Carthage in the alley behind where Smith County Hardware now sits. Of course in those days Mr. Kent was still running Smith County Hardware and it was located on Main Street. It was not a water mill but was run by gasoline engine and fewer and fewer people, even country people such as we were, still took corn to mill.
The “miller” then asked what I thought were a couple of strange questions; first he wanted to know, “how much did a person take when they took a turn of corm to mill?” and then, “and what did you take it in?” He explained that he had asked that question to several “old timers like you (me), and none of them seem to remember the answer.”
After thinking a minute or two, I told him why he would not likely get the same answer to that question from any two people, even if their memory was clear. First, it would depend on the size of your family, second it would depend on how much they liked cornbread, and third it would depend on how often they got in to town where the mill was located. It is, I suppose, the same reason that milk comes in pints, quarts, half gallons, and gallons and why some folks buy more than one gallon at a time.
As to how we got it to mill, well I assume there was some difference from family to family, depending on how much they took, how far they had to go, and what material they had at hand. As for us, we would first shuck and shell a bushel of yellow corn, pour the corn from the bushel basket into a toe sack (grass sack) and tie the top up with bailing wire. We took along a couple of flour sacks (we did not raise wheat and thus store bought our flour) into which we put the ground meal. Once home, it was dumped into the “meal barrel” which had two sides, one for flour and one for meal, and Mama would use it from there by means of a aluminum cup which stayed right inside the “barrel.”
I have learned that if you would get a good answer to life’s questions, it is first required that one ask questions clearly, and determine before hand if the question is one that should even be asked. Will the answer, once given, provide one with additional knowledge, or simply more unusable information? It is a favorite trick of the pollsters, asking a question rigged in a way to give one an answer that will be self serving. A little like the old joke of asking someone if they have stopped beating their wife. Either a yes or no answer is incriminating.
It is also true of our approach to “interrogating” the scriptures; we start with a question that is sure to yield a satisfactory answer – at least satisfactory to us. Perhaps we would be best served to spend less time in this method of interrogating the scriptures and just allow the scriptures to interrogate us.
Have a blessed day, Bob
When on vacation a few days ago with my son Christopher and his family, we stopped at the Mingus Mill, a grist mill on the North Carolina side of the Smokey Mountains. The “miller” was a man several year my junior and he and I began talking about the days of “taking a turn of corn to mill.” I told him that my Great Granddaddy Marlin Young had been both a miller and a distillery operator. It was not back-holler moonshine still but a government licensed operation, the paperwork for which is still in the hands of my son Patrick for safe keeping. It was not an unusual arrangement since typically the miller took a “toll” for grinding a customer’s corn or wheat, which amounted to 1/8th of the amount ground. By turning the ground grain into whiskey, my Scotch/Irish ancestor leveraged his trades and multiplied his profits – perhaps ten times. It was a smooth running operation until Great Grandma Young got religion and was baptized into the church of Christ. She quickly became uncomfortable with her husband being in that line of work and after seeing a “vision” of a government inspector, whom no one else saw; she exercised her wifely influence and convinced Grandpa Marlin to shut down the still for good.
The “miller” at Mingus Mill asked if I still had the toll box or if the mill still existed and I sadly explained that it did not, rather that it had fallen victim to a “freshet” or flood sometime early in the last century and all we have now is paperwork and a picture or two of the mill. I told him that I did however, remember “taking a turn of corn to mill” when we lived in Smith County and explained that it was in the town of Carthage in the alley behind where Smith County Hardware now sits. Of course in those days Mr. Kent was still running Smith County Hardware and it was located on Main Street. It was not a water mill but was run by gasoline engine and fewer and fewer people, even country people such as we were, still took corn to mill.
The “miller” then asked what I thought were a couple of strange questions; first he wanted to know, “how much did a person take when they took a turn of corm to mill?” and then, “and what did you take it in?” He explained that he had asked that question to several “old timers like you (me), and none of them seem to remember the answer.”
After thinking a minute or two, I told him why he would not likely get the same answer to that question from any two people, even if their memory was clear. First, it would depend on the size of your family, second it would depend on how much they liked cornbread, and third it would depend on how often they got in to town where the mill was located. It is, I suppose, the same reason that milk comes in pints, quarts, half gallons, and gallons and why some folks buy more than one gallon at a time.
As to how we got it to mill, well I assume there was some difference from family to family, depending on how much they took, how far they had to go, and what material they had at hand. As for us, we would first shuck and shell a bushel of yellow corn, pour the corn from the bushel basket into a toe sack (grass sack) and tie the top up with bailing wire. We took along a couple of flour sacks (we did not raise wheat and thus store bought our flour) into which we put the ground meal. Once home, it was dumped into the “meal barrel” which had two sides, one for flour and one for meal, and Mama would use it from there by means of a aluminum cup which stayed right inside the “barrel.”
I have learned that if you would get a good answer to life’s questions, it is first required that one ask questions clearly, and determine before hand if the question is one that should even be asked. Will the answer, once given, provide one with additional knowledge, or simply more unusable information? It is a favorite trick of the pollsters, asking a question rigged in a way to give one an answer that will be self serving. A little like the old joke of asking someone if they have stopped beating their wife. Either a yes or no answer is incriminating.
It is also true of our approach to “interrogating” the scriptures; we start with a question that is sure to yield a satisfactory answer – at least satisfactory to us. Perhaps we would be best served to spend less time in this method of interrogating the scriptures and just allow the scriptures to interrogate us.
Have a blessed day, Bob
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