The Lost Art of Porch and Lawn Sitting

The Lost Art of Porch and Lawn Sitting.

I seldom see anyone sitting in their yard at all these days, least of all their front yards. Oh there are occasional exceptions like the old fellow who would sit in the front yard of the house where he lived with his daughter and her husband. On the hottest July day, one could see the old fellow, dressed in his overalls, with his cane across his lawn chair, and his Co-op cap pulled snugly down on his head, sitting under a maple tree in the front lawn, giving an occasional wave to a car he though he knew, or to someone who had bestowed a wave on him. In general however, one will seldom see a grown person sitting in a lawn chair in front of his house. For that matter, one would seldom see anyone sitting in the back yard these days. Someone might be sitting on a deck or a patio perhaps but seldom on the grass they so meticulously mow and maintain.
Our house was on the corner of Jefferson and Dogwood and I suppose one could make an argument over whether we were sitting in the front yard or the side yard when we sat under the sugar maple trees on the Dogwood side. The fact is, the town could not make up its mind either and changed the address from 400 Jefferson, to 901 Dogwood sometime while I was off in Michigan and not there to protest these mindless pursuits of change that I find so offensive. Nevertheless, my family spent a good deal of time sitting in the yard, waving at neighbors as they passed and on occasion they just pulled their cars over, got out, and pulled up one of the old solid metal, red and white, lawn chairs and joined in the conversation.
It was a time in our history when Nashville had a morning and an evening paper; the Tennessean in the morning and the Banner in the evening. Each of the two papers had a particular political leaning and since we were Democrats, we took the Banner. All of us like to read things we already know, gather facts to support our conculsions, and have our leanings confirmed in print. Also, no one in my family had the time to read a morning paper since school and work came early and we were up, had our bacon, eggs, and biscuits and were out the door in pretty short order on any given day. So every afternoon the paper was left rolled up, just like the Upchurch boys had fixed it to toss onto the lawn, until Daddy got home from work and unrolled it. It was his paper, he paid the bill, and he expected to do the unrolling then dole out the various sections as he was ready. He started with the front page and worked his way to the classifieds announcing, “Who’s got the sports section?” when he was ready for that part and who ever had it was expected to surrender it to him in short order. He wasn’t dictatorial, it was just his paper, and the rest of us were simply reading by grace and left-overs.
After supper, we would sit out under the maple trees with the grown ups talking and sharing the events of their day, while I chased lightening bugs, convinced I would make my fortune selling them to someone in Oak Ridge, or I caught the hard brown bugs that circled our street light in endless dizzying circles. Donnieta did whatever 10 or 12 year old girls do, generally listen to the conversation of parents and grandparents hoping to gain some clue of what the mystifying adult world was all about. We would sit there in the cooling air of the coming dark until we figured the ambient temperature in the house had lowered to somewhere below the boiling point. Eventually, I would crawl up next to Mama or Daddy and drowsily nod and allow myself to come to that pleasant half awake, half asleep state listening to the drowning voices of the adults. Finally, Daddy would yawn; a sign to everyone that bedtime had arrived, and someone would fold that days Banner so it would not be soaking wet from the dew sure to form overnight.
It was during these pleasant evenings under the maple trees that I heard the stories of days gone by that have become such an important part of who I am. It was there I learned about making “truckles”, telling riddles, and how things were in “the olden days” of my father’s and mother’s childhood. It was there I learned about growing up in “hard-times” of the Great Depression. I there learned the rudiments of my parent’s theology, the value of family, and borrowed from the wisdom of my parents and grandparents in a way that allowed to me to incorporate that wisdom into my own life. It is difficult to accomplish these high points in human relations during commercial breaks or between video games.
When we built our current house, it was the last of six which we had built together in our married life. I say “last” because after 35 years as a corporate migrant worker, we have no intention of moving again, God willing. One of the things we made sure we provide for was a long spacious front porch that wraps around the corner of the house and a back porch that can be heated in winter and cooled in summer or simply opened up when the weather permits. It is there that we spend much of our time, surrounded by the trees and flowers and beauty of God’s nature; able to spy on the rabbits, squirrels, humming birds, and deer that wander through this little bit of wilderness we have created. It is there we share with one another the trials and successes of the day and exchange ideas of what comes next on tomorrow and tomorrow as God allows. When our grown children and their wives and children visit, we sit on the front porch and catch up with one another’s lives to the rhythm of the wicker glider, the rockers and the porch swing. Or sometimes we sit on the back porch and pick our guitars and sing to the accompaniment of Flatt and Scruggs, John Denver, or Ricky Skaggs on our iPhones.
We live today in a world short of communication. We have plenty of talk and lots of noise but communication, ideas passed from one human soul to another is in short supply. It occurs to me that a world short on real communication is also likely to be short on real love and a world short on real love will be likely to be short on real civility, trust, and understanding. Sound like any place you know?
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org

The Love of A Simple Man

Written by Janis Henry, Edited by Bob Chaffin

While I am no theologian, and certainly have no inside information, I feel quite sure there is a reason why love is listed as the first aspect of the Fruit of the Spirit. Without love, how could anyone have Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness or any other of the remaining fruit. If you asked a hundred people to define love, you would probably get a hundred different definitions because Love is so big it is hard to describe in a few words. When the Bible tells us that “God is love”, we get an idea of just how big love is.
If I narrow love down and personalize it to my relationships with my own family, friends, and neighbors, then I hope, and yes even trust, that others will define me as a person who shows love to all, giving it freely and demanding little in return. In my life, I have had the extreme pleasure of knowing someone who lived a life of love this big. (Imagine my arms spread wide.)
In the later years of his life when his hair had turned that distinguished shade of gray and his hands had been roughened by years of farm life, he became known as “Pop” to almost everyone in his family. Pop was a one-of-a-kind person of love. Someone who could make each grandchild and great-grandchild think he loved them better than all the rest. He must have put forth great effort to understand just the thing that each child needed to feel special.
They were married when he was twenty and she was only 16, a mere girl in today’s society, but of prime marriage-eligible age in those days. The town was Alicia Arkansas, which still showed only a population of 145 in the 2000 census and a median household income only slightly above $25,000. To be sure, it was small and poor location to start a marriage in the middle of America’s great depression. But one thing Alicia did have, even back then, was streetlights; and perhaps in tribute to this bit of prosperity, they were married under one. No church, no chapel, only a streetlight.
As incredible as it may seem today, Wiley had to quit school in the second grade to help support his family. He had learned only a bit of the art of reading and writing when he left school, since large farm families often pulled children out of school to help with planting and harvest and progress among the scholars was slow. When World War II came along Wiley Watson was among the 10 million men who answered the call to serve their country. While there he developed a friendship with another soldier who helped him with his writing so he could write letters to, and read letters from, his young wife left at home. However, t was his desire to serve God that drove him to hone his reading aloud skills. He had been asked to read a bible verse for the men’s class at church and badly wanted to be able to contribute in that way. While a teenager in high school, I was recruited ot help him learn the words; and eventually, after a lot of practice and hard work, he learned to read the assigned passages on his own.
Don’t misunderstand though, what Wiley lacked in education, he made up for in love and good judgment. People respected him for his farming skills and he was known as the best rice farmer in NE Arkansas; but it was his love of family and friends, and his high moral values that were the measure of this fine man.
When Wiley “Pop” Watson passed from this life, a friend who is also a songwriter penned these words about his life:
A SIMPLE MAN
“He was just a simple man, so some would proclaim,
But simple’s not so easily defined---and Wiley was his name.
He didn’t have much education, if that’s the value they need.
When he was young he struggled, just to scratch a few words and read.
His occupation was hard labor, and he never made a mint.
His wealth was measured in family and friends, rather than dollars and cents.
A simple man perhaps, but when he went to war,
He fought and almost lost his life---would a general have given more?
Pop and Mom raised their family, in the light of God above.
They held them firmly, but gently, in protecting arms of love.
Pop was beholden only to God---by His Spirit driven.
Many a man might give in return, for the services Pop has given.
He spoke ill of no man---for that was not his way;
and no man ever spoke ill of him---there was nothing bad to say.
In later years his body grew feeble, and he found it hard to hear;
but a friend could find much wisdom there---if he would only lend an ear.
Those of us who are left behind, to measure the worth of our life’s span,
must wonder at the lives that were touched---by the love of a simple man.”
(We gratefully acknowledge Will Campbell of Cabot Arkansas, creator and owner by whose permission these lyrics are reprinted.)

More than fifty years after their marriage under the street light in Alicia, I was privileged to take them back there to find that street light/wedding chapel and make a picture of them as they held hands around the pole.
If you had been around in those days in Arkansas, you might have called him “Pop” or you might have known him as Wiley, but you may have figured out by now that to me he was and will always be “Daddy.”
Thank you, Daddy, for showing me that you loved me unconditionally and for your example of loving and sacrificing for all those around you. What beautiful fruit you have produced!

Covered By Joy

Covered by Joy
by Penny Wright,
edited by Bob Chaffin

It was 2:00 a.m. when I crept into her hospital room and saw her there, looking like a child, curled up, sound asleep with her “blankie” snuggled up in her arms. She was tired, and rightfully so, because she had brought a precious new soul into the world that day. She had borne our son. Of course, technically he wasn’t ours yet, not legally, but in our hearts he already held a special place as did, I shall call her “Amy.” The blankie was not a blanket at all but a quilt that had been made especially for Amy by Margret (Maggie) Wright, my husband’s grandmother. My “grandmother-in-love”, “Nanny” we called her, loved to make patchwork quilts and she had a special gift for the craft. Making quilts brought her Joy and although she could have made a handsome sum selling what she pieced together, she declared she would never sell a quilt. They were too personal, too much love, too much of herself, went into each one. No they were never sold, they were always given away to commemorate some special event or some special person in her life. So it was with our son’s birthmother, Amy.
I know that Amy’s life had been difficult with no father or mother to “train up this child in the way she should go” and she struggled with many of her own personal demons, perhaps as a result of feeling no one cared for her on this earth. The quilt, picked especially for her to commemorate this great event in her life, this unselfish act of deferring to the welfare of her baby, rather than seeking her own good; was a sign to her that someone cared and that someone approved, at last, of a choice she had made.
I had received one other of Nanny’s quilts earlier and it will retain a life-long special place in my heart. We knew we could not have children by birth and so had tried to adopt for many years, sometimes with heart breaking outcomes. Nanny had made us a baby quilt as a sign of her faith that we would one day have a baby of our own to love and cherish. Even when I lost hope on occasion, I could look at the quilt know that Nanny’s faith remained strong, and that she was always in prayer on our behalf. She remained Joyful and confident that God had a plan for us and that His plan would, in His good time, unfold at just the right moment. The baby quilt not only eventually covered our baby, many times it also covered our fears and our discouragement with Nanny’s love and optimism.
While quilt making and giving was a unique gift in this unusual woman, Nanny found Joy in all things. She found Joy in family, friends and often even strangers. Giving gave her more Joy than receiving, but it was her love and happiness in grandchildren and great grandchildren that provided the centerpiece of Nanny’s Joy. Her home contained some unique decorations, for here and there were crayon scribbled art, obviously the work of a child. “Oh no, “ she would say, “I wouldn’t clean that off, why I remember the day he did that.’
So it is that when I think of the Fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control and a person who represents those qualities, I think of Nanny. I have to admit that picking a single element to focus on is difficult, but overall I think she is best described by JOY. Although she truly embodied many of the elements of that Fruit, the inescapable truth is that all she did, she did with Joy in her heart, while placing Joy in the hearts of others.
I pray that I have just a touch of the Joy Nanny possessed, and that I develop the ability to be joyful and faithful in all things, no matter how simple or how small. She was a shining example and a great blessing to all, not only in our family but to all who knew her. Nanny went to be with the Lord a few years ago now, and last night Pa went to join her. It has given me Joy just knowing she will be there to meet him with a laugh, a smile, and a twinkle in her eye.
I wish all of you Joy like Maggie Wright possessed. Penny

Why Frank, He's Somebody's Boy

Why Frank, He’s Somebody’s Boy
Written by Joyce Duvall, edited by Bob Chaffin

One of the things I remember most about Mama Hill (Sarah Lucy Hill) was what seemed to a city kid like me, the paradox of the woman. She had such soft lovely hands and when she wrapped you in her arms you felt as if you were to be loved for a lifetime. She was tender and kind with her grown children and farm animals alike, but she was at once firm and dealt in the reality of life that was the lot of a farm woman of the forties and fifties. I remember yet watching her walk softly up to an unsuspecting red hen and with a quick twist take the first steps toward a fried chicken supper. As I have considered that moment through the years it became clear to me why everyone, including her grown children, addressed her as “ma’am.”
Mama Hill had soft twinkly brown eyes and always wore a smile. She laughed softly and often -- she delighted in her 21 grandchildren. We traveled each summer, when the GM plants closed for vacation, to Middle Tennessee to see our beloved relatives. Each time we went to her home, we were given to understand that she could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of our visit, and that we were, indeed, the most favorite of all her favorites!
She was born in 1876, when our nation was but 100 years old, and married Papa at 20 years of age. She was the mother of 9 children and her days were spent doing all the things that a farm wife of the time did. She cooked, sewed, canned, saw that her daughters learned to do all those things, and set a sumptuous table on Sunday for the preacher and any visitors who might come to the Stiversville church of Christ. (When purchasing their farm property, a portion of the land was set aside for the building of the church house.) Stiversville was (and probably still is) a close-knit farming community outside of Columbia, Tennessee where the people there were known to call one another "cousin". I grew up thinking they were all truly my relatives – and many were!
Papa was a farmer, but he also ran his own general store, taught school, served as a county magistrate, was a member of the local school board, and an elder in the church--most of these at the same time! Although primarily a farmer, Papa Hill was an accomplished man who had such a reputation for honesty, fairness, and good judgment that he was often called on for advice, and chosen to settle the occasional dispute among neighbors. Being one of the youngest of their grandchildren, I did not know Papa until his eyesight had failed to the extent that he was forced to use a magnifying glass as he sat on the front porch in the afternoons to read the Bible or the Gospel Advocate.
Mama Hill understood the value of children feeling they were contributing, adding value to the general welfare of the family, and allowed me to work beside her in the kitchen, the garden, and the orchard. I am sure her days must have been full and busy and I probably was more hindrance than help, but she always seemed to have time to answer my questions about farm life, biscuit making, sewing (which she called “handwork”) and other things that a “city girl” would have known no other way. She got up early each morning to fix breakfast for Papa, but she let me sleep late, then help roll and cut out the biscuits for my own breakfast. I suspect she did not dwell on the word “self esteem” much, but she knew how to make me feel fulfilled and competent when a job was well done.
As a child, I was proud of my Tennessee relatives, and their dedication to the church. Mama and Papa were great Bible scholars, knowing and reciting many scriptures from memory. They believed it was the greatest guide for how to conduct their lives and made every attempt to follow its precepts.
Mama Hill was truly a "helpmeet" for Papa -- she helped with the farming, and assisted in every undertaking which he found necessary. At any given time, there were a few tenant families living on the farm who earned their livelihood by taking care of Papa’s crops, etc. In return, each one got a garden plot, a house, and a small piece of ground on which to farm for themselves. It was not part of the deal, nor was it always customary, but Mama and Papa Hill took care of them like family. Mama helped with the births of their children, took care of them when they were sick, and she and Papa made sure that their needs were met.
Mama Hill was also busy in her own house, often doing two or three chores at the same time (like making tea cakes for supper as she cleared the breakfast dishes - while soaking peaches or tomatoes in pots of hot water, in order to make them easier to peel for canning -- or a cobbler!) She felt that every person with whom she came in contact was worthy of her care and compassion.
But above all else, Sarah Lucy Hill personified kindness. During the Great Depression, many homeless people – some would call tramps - traveled along U.S. Highway 31 and would put a rock on the fence of those who had shown them a kindness or given them a meal as a sign to others passing that way. Mama Hill made daily trips to her "spring house" that was cooled by the very cold water of the creek which flowed along Route 31. She often placed food in the spring house for the taking and, if no rock was visible on the fence, she would place one there. Frequently, Papa Hill would come home to find that she had offered their hospitality to a passing stranger -- even to the extent of giving away Papa's clothes or shoes to a man far from home and in need. Being concerned for her safety, he would sometimes chastise her about the wisdom of taking in strangers. All of his concern would be brushed away with a warm, brown-eyed smile and a gentle comment, "Why Frank, he's someone's boy."
When Mama Hill passed from this earth, I was not at all surprised to see that there was not enough room in the Stiversville church of Christ to hold all of those who came to show their love and respect for her. Like Dorcas of Acts 9:36 – 42, many of the mourners had stories to tell of her kindness and generosity toward them. As Doctor Paul Southern of Michigan Christian College used to say, “She was a P 31”. A woman like the virtuous woman of Proverbs 31 – full of kindness.
Have a blessed day, and find someone to be kind to today. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org

A Tough Little Knot.

A Tough Little Knot

My father’s parents passed away when he was but a boy and so my mother’s parents were the only grandparents I knew. He was Edgar Monroe Maberry and she was Lola Betsey (Gentry) Maberry. They were from the Morrison’s Creek area of Jackson County which is about 7 miles east of the town of Gainesboro. About 1940, they had moved out of Jackson County to farm Dr. Sloan’s big place in Sullivan’s Bend. Then in 1946 they had gone further from home to farm Judge Hubert Turner’s farm, which lies just north of the new Wal-Mart on the Highway 25 bypass around Carthage. It was a much bigger farm in those days and was bounded by the high school football field on the south, running along the creek and up to the big oak that stood at Clyde White’s house. From there it ran along the Ed Reynolds’ property line to the Cumberland River and probably contained considerably in excess of 500 acres.
Ma Ma and Pa Maberry were an interesting couple, but I’ll tell you about him first. He was smart and crafty, if uneducated. Although he was the son of a teacher, he could not so much as write his name when I first remember. I could never understand the dynamic which led to that, unless it was due to the fact that today he would undoubtedly have been diagnosed as being ADHD. He was often loud, boisterous, could not keep his mind on a single task for more than an hour, but was full of fun and loved pulling a prank on someone.
He believed that hard work, not cleanliness, was next to Godliness and he filled his life with backbreaking, sweat producing, body debilitating, work and it seemed to me that he often sought out the hardest way to accomplish a task.
I remember that we had an old army surplus jeep of the variety with no windshield, no top and canvass seats that we drove back and forth to the fields when we were working in the “bottom land.” It was probably about 3 miles from their house, which stood near the entrance to Smith County Memorial Gardens, to the fields nearest the river, so walking was a formidable task. Many times my Uncle Billy Maberry and I would linger over lunch longer than Pa thought necessary, so he would say, “Well, I’m gonna git started back to the field, you’ns can come on when yer done.” With that he would walk out the door, only to be picked up about a mile down the road as we too started back to the field. It may not have been progress, but it certainly was motion and he seemed to value one as much as the other. Now days, looking back, I suspect it was management by infliction of guilt.
He walked with what we all called a “hippty-hop” since years ago, he had his foot broken by a falling railroad cross tie. (He often carried and loaded crossties for the railroad during the depression to get a little cash money, walking miles each way to the job.) There was no money for a doctor, so the foot was never set and healed with a decided hump which made his foot look somewhat like a claw. He wore high top shoes for both field and Sunday wear, although the Sunday pair was finished and shiny like “slippers” as he called regular dress shoes. His walk was reminiscent of Walter Brennan’s look in “The Real McCoys” television program so we often called him “Grand pappy Amos” with no disrespect intended.
He could not stand to be other than in front of the pack when doing any kind of work, so when we were chopping corn or tobacco, it was not uncommon for him to skip long sections of a row to stay ahead of the group of us who were hoeing adjoining rows and engaging in a little light banter to break the monotony.
Pa never learned to drive, primarily because he could never keep his mind from wandering off the task at hand. While trying to learn, he would spy a cow in the field, or a particularly weedy patch of corn or tobacco and soon would be driving off the road toward the item which had captured his attention. Finally, Mama and Daddy decided that in the interest of curtsey and public safety they would stop trying to give Pa driving lessons. That suited him just fine since he could “catch a ride” from Billy or at last resort from me on the tractor. I have many times driven him to town before I reached the age of 12 with him standing on the drawbar giving me unneeded and unwanted instructions. His objective was the old City Café and a daily meeting of his coffee buddies to discuss the latest in politics – usually only county and state races were of interest to them.
He was what people used to call, “a tough little knot of a man” and he provided for his family in spite of his physical disabilities and lack of education. He always worked and always did the best he could for my mama and her two brothers. He was different, would ask you how much money you made, talk about politics and religion, and had no idea what politically correct meant. As far as he was concerned, it was being on the correct side politically – and that was, of course, his side.
I don’t think a single person would think of him when thinking of patience, for he was seldom patient with the mules he was plowing, me when I was not doing something quite right, or Ma Ma Maberry when he wanted her to come help with what ever he was working on. But he was patient in the way that all farmers are forced to be patient. No weekly paycheck, no monthly paycheck. The tobacco was started in February and the returns came just before Christmas – maybe. The calves came in the spring but didn’t go to market until November. The hay that was cut in June and August, was not of any use until December and January. The corn was planted in April or May and it was weeks before the first green shoots appeared, but the harvest did not come until November. So it was the farmer’s lot to be patient and wait for the early and late rain as the Bible says and Pa Maberry was no different. Although he was not patient by nature, he was patient by calling, and perhaps that is what counts.
“Therefore be patient, brethren, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, until it gets the early and late rains.” James 5:7
We like Pa Maberry are called to be patient through the excesses of this world we live in, waiting for the reward which will surely come.
Have a blessed day, Bob bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org

Having the Last Laugh

The Last Laugh

His name was Ed Lafever and when I first met him he told me he was 95 years old and that he had lived in the Cherry Hill Community nearly all of his 95 years. Cherry Hill is one of those communities where little remains to indicate it was a community. At one time there were as many as three general stores and a school there. Not just a one room school, but all twelve grades through high school. It is located on highway 56 just where the road exits at Silver Point to run from I40 to Smithville. As one crosses the Putnam/Dekalb County line near Center Hill Lake, you pass through what once was the epicenter of Cherry Hill. His house was small but clean and neat, I am sure due to the loving attention of his daughters who looked in on him regularly. They and his grandchildren were the light of his life, since his wife Helen had long since been laid to rest in the little family plot a little to the north and east of his house.
The brown eyed girl and I visited him because he was a first cousin to her daddy who had passed away a number of years before. When we began working on “Ridin’ the Blinds,” which told her daddy’s story. we became frequent visitors. Orphaned at the age of 5, George Lafever, my father-in-law, had been raised by his grandparents on the old Lafever home place which sits just to the north of Ed’s house. Ed’s father was Oziar Lafever whom everyone called Ode. He was a brother to George’s father, and George and Ed and the other cousins grew up pretty much like brothers there in the cosmopolitan climes of Cherry Hill. To look at Ed was to see George, and no one could miss the impact of the common DNA on looks and mannerisms.
Ed was an interviewer’s dream. You could simply prime his pump with a few appropriate questions such as: “Were you old enough to go into the service in World War II?” and off he would go with a detailed and interesting story about how he rode the train from the west coast across the country guarding POW’s bound for prison camps and all of the interesting things that happened along the way. Or perhaps I would ask if he remembered what the Caney Fork was like before Center Hill Dam was built and for the next hour we would learn about summer fish camps where cool cave springs provided natural air conditioning, and hear about the Maynard “Holler” and the people that lived there before the icy waters of the Caney plunged it into the kingdom of Neptune.
We must have visited a dozen or more times prior to publishing the book in 2008, and it is difficult to determine who enjoyed the visits more, the brown eyed girl and I, or Ed. We all had a wonderful time laughing and remembering with me trying to keep that wonderful pump of memories primed.
On one trip he announced that he had purchased a 4 wheeler, and walking with the unsure gait of one his age, he took us down to the shed behind his house to show us an enormous 4 wheeler that dwarfed his now frail frame. At first we were alarmed at the thought of him riding the monster, but as the conversation continued, it became clear the purchase had been made to accommodate and entice his grandchildren, who came there on the weekends. He spoke of Possum hunting with Fowler Stanton who had been his lifelong friend and my former band director, and trying to score “shine” with his teenage buddies. Once, he walked us carefully down to the blacksmith shop where he told the story of how his grandmother, upon discovering his “Uncle Joe’s” pistol, had taken it down there and beat it to pieces on “that very anvil”.
Toward the end of the interviews, we had gone in to find that he had his single barrel shot gun propped up against the couch, ready for business. He explained that a stranger had showed up at his door and told him he was from the government and that he was going to measure his house to see if it was small enough to be eligible for exemption from taxes. The stranger had given Ed the end of a tape measure and told him he was to hold it by the end while the stranger went into the other rooms of the house to “measure.” Ed was old but not dumb and he knew something was up and that the stranger was likely searching for money or valuables while Ed stood holding the end of the tape measure. He was also sharp enough to realize that to confront the stranger was to invite being beaten senseless or killed. Thinking quickly, he managed to hook the tape measure to a door knob and maneuver himself to the couch where the shot gun lay hidden. When he had secured and cocked the old single barrel, he simply let the end of the tape measure drop. The stranger began to swear and curse Ed for letting go saying he was “messing up the measurements” but when he appeared in the doorway of the front room again he was shocked to find the 95 year old had the drop on him and told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he did not leave in a dead run and keep on going. The stranger accepted the invitation to evacuate. “After that,” Ed declared, “I promised myself I would keep that thing loaded.”
Finally one morning the call which we had been dreading came, Ed had crossed the bar and I found myself being thankful for every hour we had spent listening and collecting the stories he had shared with us.
One of his son-in-laws conducted the funeral service and did a wonderful job of telling of this person of Joy. He told of the Joy with which Ed received them each time they came to visit, of the exuberance he felt toward life in general. How, even in his declining years, he was interesting and interested in life and living. I suppose some would have found his life bleak and joyless, but to Ed that never appeared to be the case. He found joy in his friends who sat on the front porch in the cool of the evening and talked with him, he found joy in his daughter’s great salsa made from tomatoes in his garden, he found joy in just looking at the big red 4 wheeler, he found joy in giving and we never left his home without a can of tomato juice or some other gift that he insisted we take. One Christmas Eve, we took our son and daughter-in-law and two of our grandchildren to visit him, brought with us fruit, candy and other small gifts reminiscent of Christmas gone by, but he would not let the children leave empty handed. He pulled from his wallet two crisp one dollar bills and pressed them in their chubby little palms.
His needs were simple and family and friends were everything. When once we witnessed a daughter tenderly ministering to him by washing his feet and then rubbing them with lotion, or when we listened to another speak of him adoringly, there could be little doubt in our minds that he was a rich man indeed.
As we sat together through the funeral service, holding hands for comfort against a day of gray skies and drizzle, I was shocked to hear his son-in-law say that Ed was 93 years old! “Dave”, I asked, “did I misunderstand, I though Ed told me several years ago that he was 95?” “Oh,” Dave said, “he has been telling everyone that since before he was 90. He thought it sounded better.”
Well Ed, as always, you had the last laugh and I will always remember you as a man of great Joy.
Matthew 6:34 says, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself;” and I never saw it lived out better than the life of Ed Lafever. Have a blessed day,
Bob Robert.r.chaffin@gmail.com

Peddle Andy Peddle,

The brown eyed girl and I found ourselves in Blowing Rock North Carolina this week, a town which I knew little if anything about and which, in fact, I hardly knew existed. As we were walking up the street toward our hotel we cut through a little park with lots of play equipment for children. As might be expected, there were a couple of little girls and a small boy playing on the “monkey bars” and a little way away I noticed an older man, about my age I suppose, watching the three. Immediately my mind went to what the old fellow might be up too and so I lingered behind a bit to just watch. In a few minutes he called the three over and it became evident this was their grandfather, watching to make sure out of town characters, like me, did not cause any harm to his precious charges. Quickly my doubts turned to feeling a little ashamed that I had so quickly characterized the man. Just hours before, we had departed Mt. Airy North Carolina where Andy Griffith grew up and the town which became the model for Maberry of “The Andy Griffith Show.” The lady from the Chamber of Commerce who was showing us around, stressed over and over the places where Andy once peddled his bike, always saying, “Andy just peddled his bike over here to take trombone lessons, In those days, a child could go anywhere safely here in town,” leaving us to infer that this was not true today. I know it was true of Carthage when we were growing up. We rode our bikes at night and hung out under the old fluted shade street lamps, fighting the bugs that circled around above. We roller skated on the newly asphalted streets and trick-r-treated from house to house across the length and breadth of the town from the time we were in the third grade. I personally was not a fan of the hot lunch program at school, and so walked home for lunch, generally in the pleasurable company of a few other kids who though a sandwich at home beat “mystery meat” at school. We played “cops-n-robbers” and “kick-the-can” until ten o’clock, generally avoiding coming within hearing distance of our own house for fear our mothers might call. Never in my memory was there any mention of fear that someone would take us away. Probably our parents’ consensus was, when daylight came, and anyone who might have taken us away saw in the clear light of day what they had, they would bring us back. At any rate they didn’t seem to worry in the slightest. I’m not sure I know whether things are just so much worse today, or whether the 24 hour news cycle, in search of some new, startling, and awful thing to tell us, just makes us keenly aware of the dangers that can exist, but I am quite sure my own kids would never allow my grandchildren to do the things we did, and neither would I. It saddens me though, to think of the loss of innocence, not only of children but of our nation as a whole. We have, as a people, become aware beyond our years of the dangers that await the unsuspecting, and the harm that can befall the innocent, and our days are watchful and our sleep troubled as a result. Eccl. 7:10 says, “Say not the former days are better than these.” But I find that hard advice to follow these days. Have a blessed day, Bob bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org

Vacant Lot Baseball

Vacant Lot Baseball Today the brown eyed girl and I went to see John Patrick play baseball. J. P. is in the second grade, so this is still early in his baseball career and difficult to tell if he will make the big leagues or not. The little fellows were all dressed out in matching uniforms, with sporty equipment bags, special shoes, and batting helmets. Their names were printed on their backs and they looked like pros out there. Being as young as they are, the coach was doing the pitching and an umpire provided by the parks and recreation department, was ruling the roost. Looking around, there were nearly as many adult dads on the field as there were players and a few of them were doing that coach thing of pointing to their eyes with a couple of fingers and saying “on the ball.” As we sat on the aluminum fold out bleachers and shivered against a late spring north wind that brought temperatures in the mid 50s and falling, I thought how different this is from baseball as I remember it in the 1950s. The baseball field was the vacant lot that was nestled in a corner formed by the Borden’s Cheese Plant, and the Stock Sale Barn. (Which perhaps explains why it was vacant?) The first games I remember were played when I was too small to even be considered for playing but contented myself with shagging foul balls and crawling into the stock pens to get pop flies that went foul in a special sort of way. The players were most often the Upchurch boys, the big Upchurch boys, Ray and Bobby not Philip or Tommy as they were also too small, Tyrone Pointer, Edwin Pierce, Glen Pettross, and a host of others their age that constituted the “big boys” in our neighborhood. The first job of course was to find someone who could actually produce a baseball and a bat to start the game. The criteria for entry was having your own glove and to get the game in motion is was necessary to find some old paint can lids or like suitable objects to serve as the bases. No one had any thing that remotely looked like something a baseball player might wear unless he was going to visit his Aunt Maude on Labor Day. There were no tight stretchy pants, no special shoes, no jerseys with numbers and names, no hats that said much of anything but “Coop” or “Chevy” on the front and certainly no batting helmets. The very thought of wearing a helmet to face the opposing pitcher was beyond consideration. It just would not be done. I think however the thing that was the most obvious in its absence was adult supervision. There were no adults around, and we liked it that way. There were no dads looking over our shoulders telling us to keep our eye on the ball and no coaches pitching for us. No umpires were present and every contested call was simply argued out until it became clear that the biggest boys were going to win the argument and everyone quite contesting just in time to save the integrity of their own nose. No mothers yelled from the bleachers, “That a way to go, Levi” or alternately, “Hunter, you have got to watch what you are doing.” It was simply a vacant lot ballgame not intended to build character, prepare us for a scholarship to MTSU, teach us the rules of fair play, ingrain teamwork within us, build our self esteem, or any of the things people talk about today. It was just a chance to have fun – that was the only aim. The football field, now that was the backyards behind Kemper Hailey’s house and the biggest requirement was to be big, strong, and tough. No skill necessary. As for hockey, and soccer: we had never heard of them. Didn’t know what they were, didn’t want to know. Baseball we could see on the old black and white T.V. when the Yankees played the Dodgers in the World Series and Football we could witness every Friday night in the fall at the local high school. They were REAL sports. Now, I’m not saying the way we did it was better, or that these organized sports leagues for children don’t accomplish some of their stated goals. But sometimes when I watch a little fellow wandering around in right field with his mind clearly somewhere but in that ballgame, or listen to the rhetoric from some of the parents, or watch some of the dads on the field, I wonder who this is really for. Is it really for Anders, or is it for Anders’ dad? Is it really as much fun when dad says, “Well, when we get home we are going to practice getting those ground balls until you will never miss another one”, as it was when Ray and Bobby and Tyrone just happened by the vacant lot to play a game of baseball with how ever many players were available, or as much fun as it was when we gathered in Kemper Hailey’s back yard and Walter Booker showed us how he could cross the goal line with six of us still hanging on to various parts of his body and bits of his clothing. Sometime, we may just put to much rigor into things that should be simple. I wonder the same thing about worship sometimes when we find ourselves trying to choreograph every move of the “participants” rather than letting it be the simple kind of heartfelt expression of praise of our maker that Jesus involved himself in. I worry that in our minds we segregate the “participants” and the “audience” rather than recognizing that all of us are the participants and it is God that is the audience. As you may have figured out by now, I am better at questions than answers. A great philosopher once opined that “sometimes the answers are simple but the questions are complicated.” No, it wasn’t Voltaire, it was Dr. Seuss, Sam I Am. While you ponder these great questions, go watch your grandchildren play a sport, it will be good for them and great for you. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org

Sepia Toned Memories

Sepia Toned Memories
I suppose this has been an unusual spring, what with the warm weather and all, but it really did seem “old timey” to me. It got warm in March, the March winds blew right on schedule and the flowers appeared when they were supposed to – at least in my memory. We seem to have the capacity to make our early days near perfect, sepia toned, and endlessly pleasant and the ability to “soft pedal” the distasteful parts of those days.
The way I remember spring was that it began to warm up in February to the point where by the middle of the month, we took to the fields to disk in those corn stalks left from gathering time last fall. By the end of the month the buttercups that grew down the side of our house on Jefferson Avenue were blooming and the forsythia bushes that faced Dottie Grissom’s house were alive in their yellow and green dresses.
By March the old fashioned purple Iris were blooming along the gully that served as a gutter on Jefferson before the tar and chip road was replaced with asphalt and concrete gutters were poured. The phlox began to bloom along the edges of Mrs. Nollner’s yard on Main Street and the grass in our lawns began to show splotchy patches of green where real grass was growing. Most of our yards were weeds back then and it was good enough for us. What we had was just as good as what everyone else had so we were content, as mankind is inclined to measure contentment.
The goal was to have roses in full bloom by the first of May, not Knockout Roses, but real old fashioned roses of the climbing variety that sagged on our fences and climbed up trellises in our backyards. Why roses for the first of May? Why of course it was to be able to pin a white or red rose to your lapel for Mother’s Day. Red if you were lucky enough to have your mother still living, white if she had gone on to a better place.
It was warm barefoot weather and it was neither too hot nor too cold in the school room. The teachers would pull open the old metal frame windows that tilted into the school room and the sweet fragrance of fresh air would rush in crowding out the stale, heated, germ laden air of the long winter. It was a welcome relief since air too long occupied by fifth graders had a special smell that was unwelcome even to a farm kid not unused to unpleasant odors. Some mix between old sneakers and the boys locker at the gym.
I imagine they don’t do that today, rather they heat and air condition the room at a constant 74 degrees and keep the germs inside and the pollen outside, which necessitates taking Junior or Suzy to the allergist to get a shot of that selfsame pollen, at great financial cost, rather than getting it in the air we breathed for free. Oh well, one cannot fight progress.
The days would be pleasant, punctuated by Red Bud Winter or Dogwood Winter when one might have to drag out your winter coat for a day or two, and then back to short sleeves and no coat. Always of course, when school was done for the day, you were allowed to go barefoot, once Easter had passed.
Soon the best time of the spring would come – planting time. There would be corn to plant in the long rows stretching across the seemingly endless river bottom fields with the split wheels of the corn planter neatly pushing the earth together to cover the grains of seed corn that had been placed in the earth by the big round boxes on top of the old two row planter. Best of all was setting tobacco but only if the weather remained dry enough to use the big old tobacco setter with the 55 gallon drum of water weighting down the back. First the plants would be “drawn” from the plant bed that had lately had the canvas cover removed. Then the plants would be carried to the setter where two men would in turn place the plants into the ground with just the right rhythm to have the setter put a gush of water to their roots. Little boys could not do this job though, for one had to take great care to not catch a hand between the two heavy iron wheels that squeezed the ground together and “tamped” the soil around the newly set tobacco plant. It was like a carnival with two or three women drawing plants, one man driving the tractor pulling the setter, two men on the setter and one or two little boys, including yours truly, carrying wash tubs of plants to reload the plant boxes on the old converted horse drawn tobacco setter. Best of all – no school that day. I can still remember the warm loose soil on my bare feet which would turn cool if you wiggled your toes down several inches.
Rainy days were not so good though, for that meant going to the pegs and working along a grass string stretched from one end of the patch to the other while our backs ached and mud collected on our shoes until we could hardly pull our feet along.
Just like our memories selectively filter out the cold, rainy days, the ice storms, the sudden cold snaps, the late February snow storms, the tired achy bodies at the end of a long day in the tobacco patch, our minds also have the ability to look at our lives, putting the best possible “spin” on what we see and reason with ourselves that we are not too bad and that perhaps the Great Maker of the Universe is pretty lucky to have us as followers of him. After all, there are a lot of people worse than we are and we don’t really do any bad stuff. That was probably what Peter thought when he demanded to know why he couldn’t come with Jesus when Jesus had said, “Where I go, you cannot come.” “After all,” Peter must have reasoned, “I am a pretty handy fellow with a sword, and I would be willing to lay down my life for Jesus. Yes sir, he would be pretty lucky to have me along.”
Jesus quickly informed Peter that his own opinion of himself was highly inflated and that before the rooster crowed, Peter would deny Jesus three times. This must have been a crushing blow to Peter’s ego, but he manned up and when the moment came, he did in fact draw his sword and try to defend Jesus. But he found that it was easier to remain of good faith in the heat of battle than in the long night of despair.
It is pleasant to remember the good old days and few of us over 50 don’t like to engage in a little nostalgia, but we must remember to live in the present. And, like Peter, we need to remember that in spite of the narcissism with which we view of ourselves, it is we who are lucky, or rather blessed, to have Him, not the other way about. Enjoy your blessed day.
Bob Chaffin bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org

Excerpt #1 from Ridin' the Blinds

My brother, now long since grown grey and retired, goes by the name Ted. But in those days, he was known by his middle name, Gwan and is still Gwan to me even today. In theory at least, he and I walked to school together each day, under a cloud of threat of bodily harm from our mother if we separated. Keating Elementary was only a few blocks away from our home and back then most families had only one car, and the one car was seldom used by moms, or anyone else to deliver kids to school. As my Grandpa, whom we all called Papa said, we arrived by “shanks mare.” In fact, many “housewives”, if not most, were like my own mom and had not yet learned to drive, at least not in the big city. Sitting in the driver’s seat had been considered a man’s job and privilege before the war, but, with the introduction of “Rosy the Riveter” to the workforce, things were changing and would stay forever changed.
By late 1943 the great American war production machine had been geared up to spit out the guns, ammunition, tanks, planes and ships needed to drive the Italians, Germans, and Japanese out of the lands they had taken by force and to put them on the defensive. The war department in concert with Hollywood and the media were not at all subtle in suggesting that if you were an able bodied woman and simply sitting at home doing anything so mundane as raising a family, you were more than a little suspect of being patriotically challenged. All of these working women slid behind the wheel of automobiles to get to work and found the seat to their liking. In the period following the end of World War II, prosperity combined with newly realized “needs” produced a period of automobile production that was phenomenal as families went from one to two to three cars. The irony of this change in society is that the countries that had forced the change, Germany and Japan, became the prime producer of the “second car.” I remember quite clearly a billboard display near downtown Detroit that showed the back end of a Volkswagen Beetle sitting in a two-car garage next to a Detroit “big three” product, fins and all, with the caption “MOTHER’S LITTLE HELPER”. It was at least a decade and a half before Detroit took the VW and Datsun seriously. After all, “made in Japan” meant cheap, not quality. It was big mistake – huge, on Detroit’s part.
Being two years older than I, Gwan felt very much “the boss of me,” and was daily compelled to issue copious instructions and loudly announce belittling remarks, to his little sister, mostly for the benefit of his older boy friends. Of course he thought me very ignorant of the ways of the world, other children, and Keating Elementary School – which happily, at five years old, I suppose I was. I vividly remember that it was on one walk to school, when we were passing a horse drawn junk wagon, that he felt compelled to explain to me from where ponies came. I could not have been less interested, was pretty sure what he was telling me was impossible, and generally tried to disregard his detailed instructions. It was not sex education’s finest moment.
Since we lived on the near east side, just south of Jefferson Avenue, the Detroit River was only a few blocks away. On foggy nights, lying in my bed, I could hear the gigantic ocean freighters sound their big horns to warn other vessels passing them in the shipping channel of their presence. After a minute or so the other ship would answer and so the calls and answers would go throughout the night. Somehow it was lonesome sounding, like the mournful sound of a freight train in the night. You always knew that there were people out there, busily working through the mist shrouded night while I was tucked snugly in my warm bed.
I also remember that the army had some sort of installation next to the river and there it kept row upon row of armored tanks. Perhaps it was a storage and shipping point, since both Chrysler and Cadillac had converted their normal production of automobiles to wartime purposes and manufactured Sherman Tanks to supply General Patton’s famous Third Armor. I know that they supplied other Generals also, but General Patton was the one whose name appeared in the Detroit News every day and was best know by little girls like me. There was a constant stream of warnings in Detroit to be on the lookout for sabotage (Sabataurers were the terrorist of our day). A number of army boys, handsome in their uniforms, were stationed there to guard the precious goods which the installation held. Mamma constantly warned us not to “be fooling around down there around those boys.” Although no one could doubt the wisdom of Mamma’s fears, as I think back, I suspect that most of them were barely older that teenage boys, homesick for whatever town in America they had come from, and missing their own kinfolk. Usually soldiers “just want to go home.”
Mamma had grown up in the Hickey Community. Hickey was not really a town, rather it was an area that boasted a crossroads, a couple of small stores, a church building or two and an elementary school, or grade school, as my cousins and aunts in Tennessee called it. Hickey was just east of Silverpoint, Tennessee about seven miles from the town of Baxter and was geographically located about halfway between the towns of Cookeville and Gordonsville. Today it is adjacent to the busy I40 corridor and has its own exit by which folks from Nashville take highway 56 to Center Hill Lake and to Smithville to attend the annual Old Time Fiddlers Contest. But, in the days prior to Center Hill Dam and Interstate Forty the community was rural and isolated, since the only route into the area was via narrow, two lane, mostly gravel roads or by the Tennessee Central Railroad which ran from Nashville to Knoxville and directly through Silver Point. Of course it was not a regular stop, only a flag stop, meaning that you had to set a flag down the tracks if you wanted the train to stop, otherwise it just went right on through hooking the outgoing mail bag and throwing the incoming mail onto the depot platform.

In contrast to this rural life, the dangers of metropolitan Detroit, already teeming with millions of people who had come to get cash paying jobs in the automobile and defense plants, must have seemed enormous indeed to a gentle soul like Mamma. She continually warned us against going near the river, about going near the soldiers at the military installation, against strangers on Jefferson, and about playing in the alley. .......

Showers of Blessings

Showers of Blessings -----------------------------------------------
I went to a book signing the other night at Carthage, TN and was pleased to find a number of people there whom I had known, or known of. Among them was “Buddy” Butler whose father ran the Butler Barber Shop in Carthage when I was a boy. I didn’t really know Buddy, but knew his younger brother, Lewis, very well since we were in school together. I couldn't help remembering thatIt was their grandfather, J. W. Butler, who wrote the law which occasioned the so called “monkey trial” in Dayton, TN. In order to understand J.W. Butler and the drivers for him you must understand the times then.
“In Tennessee, farm folks aware of the eroding moral values that came with the roaring twenties, clung even tighter to the religious beliefs that seemed to create an anchor in a tide sweeping all that they held dear out to sea. Churches like the Baptists, Church of Christ, and other fundamentalist groups, rose in popularity. These groups, which accepted a literal interpretation of the Bible, did not always agree on many points of doctrine, but they all recognized the danger and long term impact of Darwin’s “Origin of the Species” and its theory of evolution by the process of “Natural Selection.” Faced with changes to society on every hand, they were determined to take control where they could and set out to eliminate this offensive teaching of Darwin’s theory from their public education systems.
By 1925, many southern states had passed laws prohibiting teaching evolution in public school classrooms. In Tennessee, a Macon County rural farmer/legislator by the name of J. W. Butler, introduced a bill making the teaching of Darwin’s Theory unlawful. The Legislature passed the Butler Law, with many politicians believing that it would not be challenged. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) in New York had other ideas however, and began to devise a way to bring about a court case that would test the constitutionality of the law. Thus came the Scopes trial in Dayton Tennessee.” (from Ridin’ the Blinds)
Buddy Butler told a story last Monday about Slicker Snake and his habits. It seems that the some what unconventional bachelor was less than fastidious about his personal habits and was known to take an annual shower at the facility which Buddy Butler’s father kept at the barber shop in town. Slicker Snake wore sweaters and would simply add a layer of sweaters as the weather got colder in the winter. As the winter was nearing an end on one particular year, Slicker Snake complained that he had lost a sweater somewhere and was unable to locate it anywhere. When he showed up for his annual spring shower at Mr. Butler’s Barber Shop, he came out following the cleansing in a particularly good mood, announcing that he was relieved that he had found the sweater he had lost last year. He had left it in the shower closet on the last annual scrubbing.
Jesus said, “You are clean, but not all.” I don't think this was the kind of clean to which He was referring.

Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN. Bob

Christian College First - Remembering DLC

Remembering the late David Lipscomb College--------------------------------------- I remember what it was like the very first time I walked onto the David Lipscomb College campus as a student. It was September and Freshman Week began on Tuesday but we were able to check in to the Dorm on Sunday. The only thing was, I was not checking in to the dorm, I was going to be “rooming” with my sister and her husband. They had been married only a couple of years and were going through the usual struggles of a newly married couple; and my dad had made an arrangement with them to allow me to room with them which would permit them to move out of the tiny apartment they had just off 12th avenue, south of Shelby Park, and into a duplex on Warfield Drive, near Green Hills Mall. The Mall was then what would later be called a “strip mall” since Cain Sloan, the anchor store was not connected with the other stores which shared a common parking spot, except by a covered sidewalk.
So I didn’t go to the campus directly, I went to the house where not only was I moving in, my sister and her husband were moving in also.
It was the beautiful fall of 1962, and John F. Kennedy was president. He had just affirmed to the world that America would put a man on the moon by the end of that decade and Fidel Castro had begun to make deals with the Soviet Union that the world was finding increasingly uncomfortable. Not to be outdone by Fats Domino, an artist by the name of Chubby Checker had introduced a song called “The Twist” and everybody was doing the dance it suggested. Tony Bennett was riding the top of the charts with “I left my heart in San Francisco” and Bobby Vinton was telling the world that “Roses are Red my love.” The Contours were asking,”Do You Love Me?” and Ray Charles was answering with, “I can’t stop loving you.” My personal favorites were “The Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler and “The Wanderer” by Dion. As I left Carthage, striking out into the world on the new adventure of college, I could indeed picture myself as “The Wanderer.” I suppose it escaped me that I was going to a Christian College with copious rules, to be living with my big sister, her husband and new baby, Jeff. Somewhat limited freedom by today’s standards.
It was not until the next day after move in that I took the first tentative walk over to the campus and discovered that my walk to school was to be some mile and one half each day. But, I was used to walking, had no car nor any hopes of getting one, besides, freshmen were not allowed cars in those days anyway. The first trip was just a recon to see who might be moving in and discover if there were any friendly faces in the crowd. There were plenty of friendly faces, but all of them were strangers looking for some other friendly face, just as was I.
It was not until the next day I began to make some acquaintances in earnest, having discovered that the walk home from campus after dark was very long, especially it rain was falling. Things were beginning to build to the school year in earnest by Tuesday evening and it was then that I discovered that my cousin Morris Mabry had come to school early to “check out the freshman talent,” in his words. He greeted me with the news that Jan Lafever, a mutual friend from Detroit, eventually to be know as the brown eyed girl, had decided to come to Lipscomb as a freshman and was indeed in that very Student Center.
By Thursday of freshman week various upperclassmen were beginning to show up providing familiar faces, and the “Faculty Fireside” that night followed the “Freshman Mixer” earlier in the evening in which we played various renamed versions of hide and seek and red rover. And yes, Red Rover by any other name is just as juvenile. On Friday the freshmen were taken to Percy Warner Park and various games were the order of the day. I passed the girls softball and noted with some surprise that the brown eyed girl was pitching for the home team, or was it the other team, I forget. She didn't seem like the pitcher type, but I was to learn that she was much more rugged than she appeared.
By the weekend, the real college students had all arrived and the campus was jumping and I loved it, I loved every bit of it, because I had never been away from home before, and never been with so many young people who did not already have you pegged into that old high school pigeon hole. All things were new and you were able to get a fresh start. I didn’t join the band, much to everyone’s surprise, but became friends with folks who were in class and with the guys with whom my cousin was running around. I soon didn’t even mind the walk since it gave me time to think and smoke, a nasty habit I had acquired in high school, could not pursue on campus, and would not give up for another ten years or so.. As for the brown eyed girl, she and I were “just friends” and might end up hanging out together on campus, or going with a group somewhere, but she was clearly uninterested in any romantic involvement, with anyone - probably most especially me.
Faculty Fireside was quite an experience since a number of us ended up “left over” and were caught going to the Home Economics, Home Management House to spend fireside with Miss Margret Carter. It was raining a slow drizzle outside and since none of us had a car, we ended up walking in the steady rain. The brown eyed girl was also in that group of leftovers and had on a pair of red flat shoes, which were ruined by the time we got to our destination. That was the first time I noticed her affinity for red shoes. In don’t think since that time she has been without a pair of red shoes, which she claims brightens you day if you are feeling blue.
The following week we all settled into classes and I learned that the competitive field at David Lipscomb College was somewhat more challenging than Smith County High School. Everything was graded on a strict curve, particularly in the freshman year which meant that 20 – 25 percent of the students in a given class were likely to receive a D or an F in that class. Lipscomb had an open enrollment policy which meant anyone could apply and enter, but in your first sessions students were invited to look to their right and their left and note that one of the three of you would not survive beyond the first quarter, and that two of the three of you would not return the following year. I didn’t know if my goose was cooked, but I knew it was pretty warm.
Now that I look back I find myself glad that God does not grade on a curve. With Him we are judged not by the performance or spirituality of others, but by his own standard, highly tempered with Grace and Mercy. And He allows us a fresh start, to escape the pigeonhole into which we have placed ourselves. All things are new.
I survived the first quarter with only a D in Biology and survived the first year with only an additional D in Physics. No more Ds were in my future, thankfully. In spite of the hard work in front of me, it might have been one of the most exciting years of my life. It is a place that holds a special fondness in my heart. "Christian College First" was the phrase our two sons would hear over and over and they both graduated from DLU. One went on to get an MBA from Vanderbilt, but "Christian College First".

God Bless, Bob

Remembering Earl Mabery

So….How do you spell Mabery? Apparently, any way you want to, since among my numerous friends and relatives with the last name Mabery, each of them seems to spell it differently. (Mayberry, Maberry, Mabery, Mabry…..)
Yesterday I learned that Earl Mabery, the big bother of my long time best friend, had succumbed to the ravages of a fast moving brain cancer. Scarcely two months ago, he had been alive and seemingly well and we were all planning a cruise to the Caribbean together next March. You see, not only was Earl a big brother to Richard, my best friend for some 40 years, he was my friend too. Richard, who passed away a few years back, had been the catalyst that brought Earl and his wife Gladys, into our lives, but it was Earl and Gladys themselves who drew us to them. They couldn’t do enough nice things for people.
After being buds at Lipscomb University, Richard and I were inducted into the U.S. Army on the same day, standing heels to toes in the line. Our service numbers were only one number apart and for the next two years we were never far apart either.
It was Earl who loaned Richard and me his brand new, green Ford Fairlane Convertible so the four of us, Jan, Sandy, Richard, and I could take a first trip to Florida before our induction date. I almost wrecked it on a north Georgia backroad.
It was Earl who drove us to the old Fort Street Train Station and then took the tearful wives home when we departed to Fort Knox for basic training. The brown eyed girl and Sandra, Richard’s wife, lived together much of the time we were gone, at least a portion of the time at the home of Richard and Earl’s parents who were two of the most unique and likable people one could ever know, but that is another whole story.
It was Earl who drove us at a highly illegal speed from Detroit Metro Airport to the Toledo Ohio airport when our flight had been canceled and we were in imminent danger of being AWOL within a few hours.
It was Earl and Gladys who prepared a going away party for us when we left and a welcome home party for us when we returned. It was at the welcome home party that Gladys gave me my most memorable haircut. I had gone by a barber shop near the GM Tech Center to get a trim after just arriving home from overseas and the barber either was drunk, or hated soldiers, (it was Vietnam and we were “baby killers”). I left the shop with a haircut that caused the brown eyed girl to gasp in horror when I picked her up from work. At the welcome home party that night, Gladys decided to remedy the haircut with a gadget she had purchased from K-Tel; she spread a towel around my neck and went to work. It was a little like eating chitterlings, the more she bit off and chewed the bigger the job got. When she was finally through, I can’t say I looked worse, since that was probably not possible, but I can say I am glad the GM was obligated to give me my job back.
After our discharge, we all lived in the little town of East Detroit, Michigan, which has now gone uptown and become East Point, Michigan, and Gladys and Earl were forever doing something nice for us. Gladys would call and ask Jan if she could keep the boys while Jan got her hair fixed of did some shopping, and Earl, who loved the water and outdoors, was always inviting us to the cottage they owned on Rondo Bay in Canada. There we boated, once even crossing Lake Erie and back, skated on the frozen canals in the winter, and dipped smelt and cooked them up right on the beach. Sandy Dean and Crystal, their older teenagers, provided handy and dependable baby sitters at a time when urban myth had babies being cooked in the microwave by a teenager high on LSD. Kim was a little young for babysitting duty but may have snuck in on the tail end of that experience. We were forever moving into and out of town with GM’s Relocation Services being our closest confidants, but when we came back to town Gladys and Earl were always there, always hospitable, and always fun.
In these later years since Richard’s passing, we have caught them annually at St. Augustine, where Sandra lives. They go down each year for a month or three and rent a place close to Sandra. We get down at the tail end of March when I no longer have to feed those big round rolls of hay to the cattle and we all catch up on kids, grandkids, and in their case, great grandkids. We tell old stories, walk on the beach, tell old stories, get coffee and doughnuts from Publix, tell old stories, and play trivia at the local bar and grille. We don’t win, but we like to play. Oh, and did I mention, we tell old stories.
It was always evident to me that Earl was Richard’s biggest hero, and to some degree probably mine also. He was able to argue without losing his temper, find a good thing in everyone, generous to a fault, had a big heart and a great sense of humor. He delighted in egging the girls on, a trait he gained from his father, and watching them rise to the bait.
He was interested in everything and as a resulting interesting at all times. Fun to be with and until the very end, never seemed to have a bad day, although I knew that he had suffered greatly with a neuralgia difficulty. An altogether pleasant fellow whom anyone would be happy to call their friend. Active to his last days, I can only be thankful he did not linger long in an invalid state; he would have wanted nothing to do with any such thing. I said earlier today when talking to my son on the phone, “Earl was a guy who always found the best in people.” He replied, “would that someone could say that about each of us when we are gone.”
Isn’t it just the most surprising thing when your offspring come up with such wise reflections? One day you turn around and life has passed and your children are making sage remarks.
Rest in Peace, Earl. Our Love, Buddy and Jan

Prologue for Pore Folks, Potlucks, and Parables

This is the prologue from my latest book, Pore Folks, Potlucks, and Parables. Let me know if you would like a signed and personalized copy. Bob


This Evolving World We Live In-----
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, things were very different than they are in this land in which you and I live, even if perchance your address has remained static. No one I knew could even pronounce Vietnam, nor did they know or care where it was, or who was in charge of it. Harry, Ike, and Jack were our presidents in these times and, unlike the land we now live in, we all wanted to believe that they were true, capable and cared about each of us.
We watched June Clever on TV and did not even question why she wore pearls around her neck, high heels on her feet, and an apron around her waist when Ward came home for dinner – we wanted to believe that world and wanted to be part of it. We watched Uncle Milty perform on the Texaco Hour, dressed in drag every week and did not question his sexual orientation; in fact we would have likely not known what that meant. Watching Red Skelton turn his hat upside down and be a little boy, or get dragged under the curtain every Sunday night never ceased to be funny. Some moms worked outside the home but most stayed home and took care of the kids.
We took our cars to filling stations with big porches for us to drive under and the man who ran it came out in a uniform and filled the tank, checked the oil and water, put air in the tires, and tore off some green stamps which you mother could trade for toasters, and electric skillets. Lots of mothers could not drive and no self respecting man would ride in a car with a woman driving – it was un-manly. A good sized house was 2000 square feet and often less, and a farm could be bought for 7 thousand dollars.
Rock and Roll was just hitting the radio, but Your Hit Parade was what everyone was watching on TV. No one thought Rock and Roll was here to stay, except the teenagers – Frank, Perry, Rosemary, and Dean were where it was at on the music scene, and the other was just a passing fad.
Words were used differently and a hoe was what you used to chop the garden, if you were gay you were only lively and happy, no one thought regular people would ever become dope eaters. Alternate lifestyles, live-ins, and Johnny has Two Mommies were meaningless phrases and most of us were without a clue concerning those things and wished to stay that way. People could be pro-choice and pro-life both then, they were not mutually exclusive term.
When I was growing up in Carthage we went to Prayer Meeting on Wednesday night. Bread came in two distinct groups, that which you made at home which included Corn Pone and Hoe Cakes or Biscuits and yeast rolls or you could eat Loaf bread from the store. We had Arsh (Irish)_ potatoes and sweet potatoes with dried beans – never white beans or great northerns. Adie made teacakes (cookies) every Saturday and we kept the milk cold in the frigidare. When we went to the store we had thing put in a poke, never a bag like now or a sack like up north. Old men wore shoes through the week, but slippers on Sunday. Everyone went to the grocery store to get food, and no one went to a Supermarket. On Halloween we had a punkin and pumpkin seemed pretentious. We got dog tired and my grandmother said you were bilious when your stomach hurt. The few cars that had turn signals we said to have blinkers and I suspect my grandchildren will never know what fender skirts were. Our fathers took a turn of corn to mill and our grandmothers kept flour in the flour barrel. When we were sick we went to the drug store and bought patent medicine.
In those days no one had ever heard of NASA, and the moon just might still be made of green cheese. Cars and homes didn’t have air conditioning and businesses that did advertized “Come inside it’s Cool” Pantyhose was not know as a single word, and women going into public barelegged was as unthinkable as a preacher wearing a Speedo in the pulpit. Church houses in the country did not have pews, they had benches, and a Sanctuary was a place birds were kept. No one had ministers, or pastors, but everyone had preachers and that was their main job description. Businesses had calculators and comptometers and Dell was a valley, Gateway was something you walked through, and Apple was something you ate. People dressed up to go to church and wore ties to go shopping downtown. Women wore white gloves on their hands and girdles on the rest of them.
Everyone read the comic strip every day, and almost everyone could tell you what Mutt and Jeff, Beetle Bailey, Snuffy Smith, and Dick Tracy was doing the day before. Sitting in the shade was a favorite pastime and no one ate Cantaloupe but everyone had Mush Mellon. You went down to the cellar to bring up a can of green beans you mother had canned last summer and out to the smokehouse to cut off a slice of middlin for breakfast. No one had bathrooms but everyone had a toilet and people burned their trash in the burn barrel in back of the house or threw it on the trash pile at the end of some country road.
Cokes were 6 cents and came out of a red and white box with water and ice inside and giant Baby Ruth Bars were a dime. If you picked up bottles from Co colas, you could get a penny for them from the store. Milk came in glass bottles, and freezers on the ice box were roughly the size of two shoe boxes, which was ok because not many frozen items were available at the store. People we knew didn’t eat in restaurants except when there was no other choice and they were called Cafes – unless of course it was an automat.
My mama and daddy were masters at finding lessons in everything in life and helping you understand why some things were a bad idea without ever forbidding you to take part in them, and understanding why others were wholesome and good, without ordering you to take them up. They taught in parables, I think it was not expressly to be like Jesus, I think it just happened. Perhaps that is why I have chosen this format for the book; it is Christ like by virtue of personal leaning rather than by intention.
Yep, lots of things have changed, since that land long ago and far away, but a few things remain the same. God still loves us and expects us to show our love for Him by the way we treat other people. We still have but one life to live, and only one shot at getting it right and living to the praise of his glory. (Eph. 1) While the world around evolves, almost daily, He remains a constant rock in a raging sea. I sincerely hope you enjoy these parables from daily life.
Bob

Seaking Northern as a Second Language

Northern as a Second Language---------------------------------------------------

I speak Northern as a second language; I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I was trying to make a living with General Motors and that required me to spend 35 years in the frozen north. Of course Southern is my native tongue, being born in Jackson County and raised in Smith County, and it comes to me as easy as a lie to a politician. But I read Jack McCall’s piece in the Carthage Courier about “Paying Attention,” and it reminded me to pay attention to the difference in the way we talk Down South and the way things are said up north.
Of course, it is more than just what you say, it is the way you say it and when it is said. For instance, those folks up north like to jump right into business and skip all of the “small talk,” as they call it. I was a face-to-face negotiator for a good part of my career with General Motors, and it would just drive the other side crazy when I wanted to ask about their daughters upcoming wedding, inquire after their granny, whom I had learned was in a nursing home, or tell a little story I had heard that might or might not relate to anything we were going to discuss when the negotiations had begun in earnest. After all, they had often flown in from New Jersey or Plano, TX or Palo Alto, California on the morning flight, or better yet the corporate jet, and felt they needed to get down to business in the first three minutes. Not me, I had learned in the South that it is hard to be nasty to someone who had just inquired about your little boys tonsillectomy, and opined that, “well, kids get through these things, but I sure hope the little fellow will feel better tomorrow. You be sure and let me know.” That kind of conversation is hard to follow-up with red faced yelling and cuss words.
My cousin Marva and I were talking about how much difficulty the folks around Franklin, Spring Hill, and Columbia had adjusting to the brusque manner of the northerners who moved down to work at the Tennessee Saturn facility. Those folks wanted to get right down to business while the southern folks were still wanting to find out how they slept last night, and whether they thought the weather would change or not. It was something of a culture clash for the first few years.
The Northern language is dry, as dry as a bone in the desert, while Down South we try to spice it up with a simile whenever possible. I personally was known for the use of barnyard animals in speech.
“Negotiating with you folks, is like trying to teach a pig to whistle – it don’t accomplish a thing, and it just irritates the pig.”
“Negotiating with this company is like wresting with a pig – you both get nasty, but the pig likes it.”
“What is this, some kind of Goat Rodeo?”
“I’m going to work this bunch like a rented mule.”
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him take a bath.”
I once was in negotiations with a company in Short Hills, NJ and a great deal of the work was done by conference phone. The leader of the opposing team later told me that they kept a whiteboard in the room for the sole purpose of noting the barnyard animal similes and analogies I used each day.
A Jewish lawyer from Washington D.C. who sometimes supported my side of negotiations, called me a few years after I had retired and told me he had tried to memorize a lot of my saying and use them himself. “It was going pretty good too,” he said, “until I came to the term Goat Rodeo. I lost them there and someone wanted an explanation and I had nothing.” It is one of those sayings that is best delivered with a Southern accent, I guess.
Well, those fellows from New York and New Jersey are pretty slick, “as slick as a puppy’s navel,” my daddy would say, so I figured that it was just fair play to put them a little off guard with a little Southern speak. One of my friends told me when I retired that when I ever started out a sentence with, “Now I’m just a farm boy from Middle Tennessee….;” that everyone in the room automatically put their hand on their wallet. (By the way – that’s Northern for billfold.) Speaking of which, takes me to the next segment of Northern as a second language.
Down South, we go to the grocery store, nearly have a wreck, push the buggy through the store we trade at, have the groceries put in a bag (or poke) and the boy wheels them out to the car for us.
Up North, they drive to the supermarket, narrowly avoiding an accident, push the shopping cart through the store where they shop, have the groceries put in a sack and wheel them out to their vehicle themselves.
We say you all (pronounced Y’all) – they say “you guys.”
We say “ya hear” – they say “huh, or eh.”
We say creek – they say crick, we say aunt (like the bug) – they say aunt (rhymes with want); we say caught (kawt) – they say caught (cot); we have yard sales (focus on where the sale is) – they have rummage sales (focus on what is being sold); we catch crawfish – they eat crayfish.
We drink coke or co cola (no matter that it is orange or grape) – and they drink pop (unless you are from down east and then it is soda) And not one of my Northern friends would even know what a Yoo-hoo is
We travel on interstates – and up north one drives on the freeway. The night before Halloween is Devil’s Night up north and down South it is “the night before Halloween.” By the way, we carve punkins into Jack-o-lanterns and wear false faces; but they use pumpkins that look just like a punkin and wear masks.
Up north if someone were to say “bless her heart” it would mean they are thinking kind thoughts about her, down South it means what the person who says that is thinking is too awful to repeat in polite company. Some Southern words do not translate directly into Northern lingo. For instance, cattywampus, skygogling, whamperjawed, thingamadiger, doohickey, whatchamacallit; and other like, perfectly good but made up words. Other words, like booger means one thing down South but that same thing is called boogie up North. Boogie Man or Booger Man, you decide.
Down South people have conniptions, and pitch hissy fits, while up north they only “have a hemorrhage” when things go wrong. Up North, all of us are considered “crackers,” “briars,” or “hillbillies”, down South we know that a cracker is from “Jawja,” a briar is what blackberry cobbler comes from, and the hillbillies are on TV.
Down south we also like to run words together into a single syllable or to break words into as many syllables as possible. Like “Momenems”. Used in a sentence it would be “After this thing is over we’er going over to Momenems to get something to eat.” Or words which take on their own meaning like “Laisleb” which is a short form of “Well I will be”; or adding syllable as in Mis-ris, for Mrs or Jewl-er-ry for jewelry.
In the Movie “I Remember Mama” Uncle Kris tells his sick and suffering young nephew that he needs a swear word to use when the pain comes but that he must not use one in English, since people will be offended, rather he teaches the boy a swear word in Swedish – whether actually a swear word or not the audience is left to wonder. Southerners are particularly adept at using “light” swear words, For instance, my mother-in-law’s swear word was “well foot.” When she was disappointed, up-set, or surprised, she said, “well foot.” Dang, dog gone, dern it, Goodness Gracious, Gracious Me, well I’ll be _____, dag nab it, this blamed thing, are all euphoniums used by Southerners for swear words – Northerners are generally more direct.
While I noticed a sizeable erosion in the Southern tongue during my 35 years in the North, primarily I suppose, as a result of the man on the six o’clock news, there is still a big difference. As I often told my friends at work, “Yawl talk at 45 and I listen at 33 1/3 – but now no one under 35 would even understand that term anymore. I only know that when I got south of the Ohio River my tongue relaxed.
I never made a conscious effort to lose my Southern accent, since in a company as large as GM being remembered, even for your accent, was a good thing. I remember once being sent to a large meeting at the GM Technical Center in Warren, MI where 22,000 people worked. I was to make a presentation to a group of executives. When I arrived back at the plant, my boss called me in the office chuckling. “Well,” he said, “you made an impression, the Assistant Comptroller called to complement “that guy” who made the presentation. When I asked him, what guy, he replied, “the one who talks like Catfish Hunter.”
I suppose it doesn’t matter whether our speech is Northern or Southern but I do wish it was a little more sprinkled with civility. That we were more careful about the use of our Creators name in vain, that we were a little more polite and kind to one another, that we were less quick to be blunt and hurtful in our comments.
The Apostle Paul admonished us to speak the truth in love, but my granny just said, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.” Let’s look for those “apples of gold in pitchers of silver.”
Have a blessed day, Bob

Signs and Wonders

Signs and Wonders.------------------------------------------------

I passed the Rome church of Christ today and noticed the sign said, “Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.” I thought the sign was pretty appropriate as a punctuation mark to the conversation the brown eyed girl and I had been having for the previous couple of miles. She had noted that in nearly every yard, there was a motorcycle, a bass boat with a huge motor on the back, or a Skidoo of some description or another.
A couple of days ago a young fellow had passed us on I 40 as if we were sitting still. We were going near 70 mph so he must have been exceeding 85 or 90. The scary part was that he was on a motorcycle, It was one of those Japanese racing models that sounds as if a couple of brigades of soldiers were in a chainsaw fight. One loose pebble on the road and that young man would have been standing face to face with Saint Peter, or at lease face to face with someone.
I assume that part if it is that I am getting older. but there seems to be an obsession with speed and danger these days. Everyone wants the fastest boat, the highest roller coaster, the steepest rock climb, the most powerful motorcycle, the most dangerous bungee jump (which is just about any bungee jump, in my opinion). They want to live on the edge, experience danger close=up, get the newest adrenaline high.
It has always been my theory that man is put onto this earth with a big God shaped hole in him, and until he fills himself with God, he feels empty and incomplete. So you can dance as fast as you can, drink as much as you can, live on the edge with motorcycles, skidoos, bungee jumps, and roller coasters, but until the God shaped hole is filled, one still feels empty and incomplete. You can buy the most expensive homes and cars, take the most exotic vacations, wear $400.00 designer jeans and snake skin boots, but none of these will fill the hole. Only the God of the Universe fits in this hole and nothing else will plug the leak that leaves one feeling empty and alone.
Now a lot of times when I read those church marquees it is truly a matter of Signs and Wonders. I Wonder why they think that Sign is cleaver. But the sign at Rome today, well, it just hit the sweet spot.
“Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.”

Have a blessed day and visit us at the Maple Hill church of Christ. Bob

Little things really do mean a lot.

Ground hogs and Grits--------------------------------
There are some things in the world which I feel are highly underrated; things that should be held in high esteem but through ignorance and apathy are misunderstood and ignored.
One example is the ground hog, also known as the wood chuck or the whistle pig, depending on where in the United States you are calling one. The ground hog is, after all, the only animal that has a day named after him on your calendar. As highly regarded as the dog and cat are there is no dog day or cat day on you calendar. Oh, we refer to the “dog days of summer” but that is simply an expression, and holds no sway on the official calendar. But check February 2nd and there it is; the whistle pig’s very own day.
It’s not surprising when you think about all the things the little fellow can do. He makes a pretty good dish, baked up with sweet potatoes on each side of him, and that ground hog hide makes the best shoe laces you ever tied in your life. He is a weather forecaster, a hole digger, and is as clean as a whistle, why he eats only the best grass and corn from your patch. He even has a song about him;

Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Ground hog grease all over her chin.

Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Oh my, ain’t a Ground Hog stout.

Grits, well there is just no end to the usefulness of that commodity and most Yankees I met up north didn’t have a clue what they were all about.
The fact is though, that grits are the most useful in the North, not the South at all. It was a real good thing to carry a big sack in the back of your car. Not only did they add weight to the back end (of the car) to keep you from sliding around on all that snow and Ice, if you really got stuck, you could open that sack, sprinkle some on the ground in front of your tire and they acted just like sand, giving you enough traction to get out of that hole. Grits also make a great cleanser for your hands when the Lava Soap is all gone. If you had oil and grease on you hands from working on the tractor, Mama would just pour some grits in your hands, all lathered up with regular soap, and those hands would soon be pink and shiny.
Not only did the Yankees not have any clue about the many uses of grits they had no idea how to eat them. They thought they were cream of wheat or something. They would sprinkle sugar on them, pour milk over them, and then complain because they didn’t taste good. Well, I guess not, everybody knows grits are eaten hot, with a ¼ inch pat of butter in the middle and a little salt and pepper on the top. It doesn’t hurt if there is a little red eye gravy to drizzle on top either.
Ground hogs and grits are just a couple of those little things of which people overlook the value; and that is the real point of this story. (You knew there would be one, didn’t you?) It is the everyday things that we come to take for granted that make our life the color, taste, and flavor that it is. It is these small things, like rainbows from angry skies, butterflies that light on, and light up, our flowers, and red birds that sit in our Crape Myrtle and look smack in the bay window at us, for which we ought to remember to give God thanks. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to mention groundhogs and grits now and then either.

Have a blessed day, Bob

Unto the Least of These

The Least of These------------------------------------------------------------------
The brown eyed girl and I decided to get away for a couple of days and ended up at the Smokey Mountains. After a ride in the mountains, we stopped at Taco Bell and promised to do better at dinner time. We had been riding along discussing spiritual things since she had been reading “Who is My Brother” by Lagard Smith. When I stopped at Taco Bell, we were in the middle of a spirited theological discussion and I jumped out of the van suggesting that she, “hold that thought and I will be right back.”
Standing in line waiting to order my Burrito Supreme, I noticed a fairly nice looking young man, plainly dressed and wearing a backpack approach the manager and announce in a heavy accent that seemed to be from a former Soviet Block country, “I am looking for a job, do you have any openings?” The manager explained that they were taking applications, but not hiring at that time. The young man took the application and noted that he did not currently have an address that he could put down. The manager replied that this would be ok but that he would need a phone number, to which the young man quietly replied, “I haff no phone.” “I sorry,” the manager said in a seemingly sincere way, “but without an address or phone number, I cannot take your application.”
The young man nodded, then ask if he could bother the manager for a cup of water. The manager smiled, drew a cup of water and handed to the wanderer who walked near the door and slowly drank the cold water. My mind was racing checking to see how much cash I had in my pocket, when the lady in front of me in line walked to the young man and handed him a ten dollar bill, saying, “Here, I want you to have this.”
“Why do you do this for me?” the young man asked with a genuinely puzzled look on his face. “I just want you to have it,” she replied quietly. He lowered his head, nodded slightly and folded the bill and stuck it into the pocket of his rolled up jeans. She smiled back, and walked out the door, got in her car and drove away. He also immediately exited and rode away on his bike, pack still on his back.
When the brown eyed girl and I drove past a nearby Kroger Store, the young man was looking at a large sign that said, “NOW HIRING.” I pray that his luck was better than at the Taco Bell.
Somehow the theological conversation we were engaged in, now seemed much less important than before and we simply sat quietly as I shared the story with my bride.
Matthew 25: 34-40 34"Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'
37"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'
40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
Seeing the precepts of The King put in action is a humbling experience.

Visit us at Maple Hill, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN as we learn together to be children of the King. Bob