More Cousin Barney on Hughes County Oklahoma Baptists-------------------
Ever so often I get a story from someone who gives me permission to pass it on to you. This one is from Barney Smith a distant cousin of the Gentry persuasion whose family went to Oklahoma and then on to Texas. He tell about country life as a Baptist Boy and except for the name “Baptist” and the piano in the corner could have been any rural church of Christ in the Upper Cumberland of Tennessee.
Hughes County Baptists-------
Since I am an old dude nearly seventy years old, I hope no one will hold any inaccuracies or well meaning prevarications against me as I relate this minor piece of history concerning Hughes County, Oklahoma. My earliest recollections of this area was about 1945 and the country was still finishing up World War II. My ancestors on both sides of my family migrated to Oklahoma almost immediately after it (the “Indian Territory”) was opened up to whites in the last two decades of the 19th century. They came from Tennessee, Georgia, Indiana and Texas and most of them were escaping the conditions of the aftermath of the civil war. Some of them participated in the Land Runs and all of them came with the hope of cheap land. They were all poor and they were all Baptists of one stripe or another. Most of them were “tenant farmers” and would get upset if someone referred to them as a “sharecropper”. Sharecroppers and tenant farmers both rented farms on a percentage basis, usually from a bank or wealthy landowner. Tenant farmers owned their own equipment and a couple of mules or draft horses and the equipment was very primitive, usually consisting of a middle buster, harrow, cultivator, wagon , and cotton planter. All of these devices were horse drawn. A Sharecropper had no equipment and was therefore more at the mercy of his landlord. Truth to tell, there was very little difference in a sharecropper and a tenant farmer. Most of the farms were 40 acres and very seldom exceeded 80 acres. Most of the families that existed on theses farms had eight or nine kids and all were expected to contribute to the well being of the family. Today they would be referred to as “subsistence” farmers but in rural Oklahoma it was a way of life.
They lived in seven or eight hundred square foot houses that were plenty cold and drafty with no lights or heat except a wood stove. They mostly ate & slept there with all of their daylight hours being taken up by farm chores. A boy that hung around the house all the time was generally considered sissified. A girl could get away with it if she helped her mother. By 1930, the “okies” had pretty much worn out the land with their poor farming practices. On top of that, it didn’t rain much in the thirties and the dust bowl and depression were in full force. Electricity did not come to rural Hughes County until about 1946 and at the same time Hughes County sons were returning from World War II. My father and several uncles and cousins were all involved in that great struggle and blessedly all returned home unscathed and the resulting reunions stand out in my mind. But things changed in a big way after that as they all found jobs and opportunities in larger cities. Almost none of them stayed in Hughes County but my grandparents on both sides of my family stayed there for the rest of their lives.
As rural and backward as it sometimes was, rural life in Hughes County boasted communities that were real and caring places. Each community was dominated by a Baptist Church and everyone attended. One side of my family was Missionary Baptist and another side was Freewill Baptist and some of them had Primitive Baptist leanings. None of these churches had a full time preacher and Sunday services were usually performed by itinerant preachers. Some of these preachers returned from time to time and were well known in a lot of the communities. Some of their preaching was pretty good and some of it would scare the daylights out of you. I recall Brother Riley Simpson who preached at Prairie View Baptist once in awhile and affected an English accent. He began every service in the same manner. “I am indeed happy to be here”. When he said it, it sounded like he was “hoppy” to be here and it would cause suppressed giggling among the younger set. I recall him telling about Balaam and his talking donkey. Balaam was beating this recalcitrant beast when God had an angel speak to Balaam through the donkey. Brother Simpson who of course had no public address system was warming to the story and he thundered, “God did not speak directly to Balaam.” Then he said it, “God was speaking through Balaam's (donkey, only he didn't say donkey)”. Well!! It was mighty quiet for a minute or two and it seemed to me that for some reason everyone had to cough. One or two were “coughing” so hard that they had to leave the building. Most of these churches purchased Sunday School materials from the Southern Baptist Convention but otherwise had little to do with them. They would have been appalled at having any organization telling them how to run their church or what to believe. Except for a piano, they for some reason, did not countenance musical instruments at church. They would have been dumbfounded at the idea of building a gymnasium or buying a fleet of buses. They had outdoor segregated restrooms and the church property had no fancy landscaping. The church building and grounds were kept in immaculate condition by the members of the congregation. My grandfather mowed the grass every Saturday so it would look presentable Sunday morning. Most of the community attended church twice on Sunday and again on Wednesday evening (prayer meeting). Nobody loves ice cream more than a Baptist so there was an “ice cream social” usually about once a month at someone’s home. These were wonderful affairs where there would be several different kinds of homemade ice cream and if it was late summer, someone would bring four or five 50 or 60 pound watermelons. Everyone would be outside and the kids would be all sugared up and going nuts.
Anti alcohol pledges were part and parcel of all these communities. My Grandpa & Grandma Smith attended Big Spring Missionary Baptist Church and their parents helped found this church. Grandpa was a deacon and Grandma played the piano and led the singing for 40 years. Grandma put together a quartet with her friends and for awhile played 15 minutes a week on McAlester radio. This little show was of course sponsored by a funeral home. I loved spending weeks in the summer when we would travel to churches all over the county to “singings”. Unfortunately none of this talent rubbed off on me but I have had a love for gospel and traditional music all my life. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t believe in working on Sunday. Grandpa told me that he plowed on a Sunday one year and his crop failed. Grandma would get up about 5am on Sunday and fix breakfast while Grandpa did the barn chores. After breakfast she started on Sunday dinner. All on a wood burning stove. Seemed like working to me. She was usually the congregant that enticed the preacher home for Sunday dinner and was always pleased if she could feed the preacher. Nobody ever heard of lunch. We ate breakfast, dinner & supper. Grandma was a wonderful cook and always fixed fried chicken on Sunday. Chicken was not an everyday affair like it is now. Chicken was reserved for Sunday and any preacher that ever had my grandma’s fried chicken would be back. Daddy told of coming home late on Saturday nights and finding a preacher in his bed. He knew what Jimmy Dickens was singing about when he sang “Sleeping at the foot of the bed”. It was a way of life that is gone for good now. All The churches are gone and the little farms have been absorbed into cattle ranches.
Barney Smith
4/2010
Barney, I would have thought they taught those preachers how to love fried chicken in preacher school, but in those days most Baptist Preachers around here didn’t go to preacher school. They were “called to preach” and my dad in a most politically incorrect way, opined that “seems like those Baptists always get called during tobacco cutting season.” He like to tell the story of one young fellow down in west Tennessee who came in and told his Daddy, “Pap, I think I just got the call to preach.”
“Why’s that?” the old man inquired.
“I saw a sign up in the sky, clouds that formed the letters GPC, and I figured it meant “Go Preach Christ.”
“Well, see that is where you are ignorant of the facts, that meant Go Plow Cotton, now get back out there.”
Appreciate the story Barney, keep them coming. Bob
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
A Foolish Question at Mingus Mill
Ask a Foolish Question--------
When on vacation a few days ago with my son Christopher and his family, we stopped at the Mingus Mill, a grist mill on the North Carolina side of the Smokey Mountains. The “miller” was a man several year my junior and he and I began talking about the days of “taking a turn of corn to mill.” I told him that my Great Granddaddy Marlin Young had been both a miller and a distillery operator. It was not back-holler moonshine still but a government licensed operation, the paperwork for which is still in the hands of my son Patrick for safe keeping. It was not an unusual arrangement since typically the miller took a “toll” for grinding a customer’s corn or wheat, which amounted to 1/8th of the amount ground. By turning the ground grain into whiskey, my Scotch/Irish ancestor leveraged his trades and multiplied his profits – perhaps ten times. It was a smooth running operation until Great Grandma Young got religion and was baptized into the church of Christ. She quickly became uncomfortable with her husband being in that line of work and after seeing a “vision” of a government inspector, whom no one else saw; she exercised her wifely influence and convinced Grandpa Marlin to shut down the still for good.
The “miller” at Mingus Mill asked if I still had the toll box or if the mill still existed and I sadly explained that it did not, rather that it had fallen victim to a “freshet” or flood sometime early in the last century and all we have now is paperwork and a picture or two of the mill. I told him that I did however, remember “taking a turn of corn to mill” when we lived in Smith County and explained that it was in the town of Carthage in the alley behind where Smith County Hardware now sits. Of course in those days Mr. Kent was still running Smith County Hardware and it was located on Main Street. It was not a water mill but was run by gasoline engine and fewer and fewer people, even country people such as we were, still took corn to mill.
The “miller” then asked what I thought were a couple of strange questions; first he wanted to know, “how much did a person take when they took a turn of corm to mill?” and then, “and what did you take it in?” He explained that he had asked that question to several “old timers like you (me), and none of them seem to remember the answer.”
After thinking a minute or two, I told him why he would not likely get the same answer to that question from any two people, even if their memory was clear. First, it would depend on the size of your family, second it would depend on how much they liked cornbread, and third it would depend on how often they got in to town where the mill was located. It is, I suppose, the same reason that milk comes in pints, quarts, half gallons, and gallons and why some folks buy more than one gallon at a time.
As to how we got it to mill, well I assume there was some difference from family to family, depending on how much they took, how far they had to go, and what material they had at hand. As for us, we would first shuck and shell a bushel of yellow corn, pour the corn from the bushel basket into a toe sack (grass sack) and tie the top up with bailing wire. We took along a couple of flour sacks (we did not raise wheat and thus store bought our flour) into which we put the ground meal. Once home, it was dumped into the “meal barrel” which had two sides, one for flour and one for meal, and Mama would use it from there by means of a aluminum cup which stayed right inside the “barrel.”
I have learned that if you would get a good answer to life’s questions, it is first required that one ask questions clearly, and determine before hand if the question is one that should even be asked. Will the answer, once given, provide one with additional knowledge, or simply more unusable information? It is a favorite trick of the pollsters, asking a question rigged in a way to give one an answer that will be self serving. A little like the old joke of asking someone if they have stopped beating their wife. Either a yes or no answer is incriminating.
It is also true of our approach to “interrogating” the scriptures; we start with a question that is sure to yield a satisfactory answer – at least satisfactory to us. Perhaps we would be best served to spend less time in this method of interrogating the scriptures and just allow the scriptures to interrogate us.
Have a blessed day, Bob
When on vacation a few days ago with my son Christopher and his family, we stopped at the Mingus Mill, a grist mill on the North Carolina side of the Smokey Mountains. The “miller” was a man several year my junior and he and I began talking about the days of “taking a turn of corn to mill.” I told him that my Great Granddaddy Marlin Young had been both a miller and a distillery operator. It was not back-holler moonshine still but a government licensed operation, the paperwork for which is still in the hands of my son Patrick for safe keeping. It was not an unusual arrangement since typically the miller took a “toll” for grinding a customer’s corn or wheat, which amounted to 1/8th of the amount ground. By turning the ground grain into whiskey, my Scotch/Irish ancestor leveraged his trades and multiplied his profits – perhaps ten times. It was a smooth running operation until Great Grandma Young got religion and was baptized into the church of Christ. She quickly became uncomfortable with her husband being in that line of work and after seeing a “vision” of a government inspector, whom no one else saw; she exercised her wifely influence and convinced Grandpa Marlin to shut down the still for good.
The “miller” at Mingus Mill asked if I still had the toll box or if the mill still existed and I sadly explained that it did not, rather that it had fallen victim to a “freshet” or flood sometime early in the last century and all we have now is paperwork and a picture or two of the mill. I told him that I did however, remember “taking a turn of corn to mill” when we lived in Smith County and explained that it was in the town of Carthage in the alley behind where Smith County Hardware now sits. Of course in those days Mr. Kent was still running Smith County Hardware and it was located on Main Street. It was not a water mill but was run by gasoline engine and fewer and fewer people, even country people such as we were, still took corn to mill.
The “miller” then asked what I thought were a couple of strange questions; first he wanted to know, “how much did a person take when they took a turn of corm to mill?” and then, “and what did you take it in?” He explained that he had asked that question to several “old timers like you (me), and none of them seem to remember the answer.”
After thinking a minute or two, I told him why he would not likely get the same answer to that question from any two people, even if their memory was clear. First, it would depend on the size of your family, second it would depend on how much they liked cornbread, and third it would depend on how often they got in to town where the mill was located. It is, I suppose, the same reason that milk comes in pints, quarts, half gallons, and gallons and why some folks buy more than one gallon at a time.
As to how we got it to mill, well I assume there was some difference from family to family, depending on how much they took, how far they had to go, and what material they had at hand. As for us, we would first shuck and shell a bushel of yellow corn, pour the corn from the bushel basket into a toe sack (grass sack) and tie the top up with bailing wire. We took along a couple of flour sacks (we did not raise wheat and thus store bought our flour) into which we put the ground meal. Once home, it was dumped into the “meal barrel” which had two sides, one for flour and one for meal, and Mama would use it from there by means of a aluminum cup which stayed right inside the “barrel.”
I have learned that if you would get a good answer to life’s questions, it is first required that one ask questions clearly, and determine before hand if the question is one that should even be asked. Will the answer, once given, provide one with additional knowledge, or simply more unusable information? It is a favorite trick of the pollsters, asking a question rigged in a way to give one an answer that will be self serving. A little like the old joke of asking someone if they have stopped beating their wife. Either a yes or no answer is incriminating.
It is also true of our approach to “interrogating” the scriptures; we start with a question that is sure to yield a satisfactory answer – at least satisfactory to us. Perhaps we would be best served to spend less time in this method of interrogating the scriptures and just allow the scriptures to interrogate us.
Have a blessed day, Bob
Thursday, March 25, 2010
White Outs, Blizzards, and Snow Packs
Appreciating the Spring--------------
The Red Bud trees are starting to bloom now and the Dogwoods will not be far behind. We are beginning to back off on the amount of hay the cattle are being fed and soon they will turn up their noses at the dry brown hay in favor of the juicy green shoots beginning to cover the hillside pasture to the right of Kennedy Lane. The Yoshima Cherries are turning their radiant pink and white is emerging on every Bradford Pear. Soon all of us who still cut our own lawn will be checking to see if the blade on the lawnmower needs sharpening and that the engine will still start. Unlike the days when lawn mowing was something I did after work or in the precious few hour away from work on Saturdays, I now look forward to the yard work and the feeling of accomplishment it gives me when I finish a day of making the place look “shipshape.”
I love the warm weather, for I have a tremendous basis of comparison with life in the great white frozen north when winter set in about the beginning of November and lasted until nearly June. When the brown eyed girl and I lived in Grand Rapids Michigan, the annual snowfall often hovered around 75 inches but in some years was double that amount. I remember that in one particularly rough winter the snowfall nearly doubled the average and a whopping 20 inches fell in a single January storm which lasted little more than 24 hours. My family had not yet moved to Grand Rapids and I was a more or less permanent resident of the local Holiday Inn when the big blizzard of 78 came to Michigan. I woke up that morning to a 20 inch snowfall and 21 degrees below zero. As I was seriously debating with myself on the wisdom of accepting this assignment, I was also wondering if the little 1976 Vega I was driving would, by some miracle, start. It did not, but the Plant Protection people came out to pick me up in a four wheel drive Suburban.
I also remember my two little children hiding Easter eggs in the snow that year and the worry of the community centered around the fact that several of our school children had been injured by sliding off snow banks in front of oncoming cars while waiting for the school bus. One could scarcely tell where in the community you were located since it was difficult to find even a single landmark not covered by snow. Many careful drivers had placed tall bike poles with orange flags on the front bumper of their cars so others drivers would be able to know their whereabouts at four way intersections, since seeing over the snow banks was impossible. It was not uncommon to see neighbors on flatter roof surfaces with their snow blowers reducing the weight load on the rafters, or to see collapsed roofs on outbuilding that had not had that level of care.
Less common, but occurring on several occasions were “white outs,” where it became impossible to see out of the windows of your home or office because blowing snow whipping through the air completely obliterated the field of vision or where seeing even the hood of one’s own car became impossible.
Roads were attached by massive trucks with snow plows higher than my head, but even so main north/south arteries such as the 131 freeway sometimes ground to a halt as drifting and blowing snow packed underpasses with snow from pavement to the girders of the bridge overhead. Massive broken back front end loaders had to be trucked in and the snow loaded into tandem gravel haulers and trucked to the Grand River and dumped.
The winters we spent in Cleveland Ohio were scarcely better than the ones in Grand Rapids, and if I really want to remember what it is like to be cold, I simply remember back to the winter I spent in Korea with the Siberian wind swooping down and blowing through the Quonset huts in which we lived.
Yes, I know how to appreciate the spring and how to appreciate the mild weather of Middle Tennessee, even in colder winters like this one in 2009 and 2010, because I have seen how tough the winter is capable of being and what it is like to go days upon end without seeing a ray of sunshine and weeks upon weeks when the mercury never went above freezing, sometimes staying below zero for days at a time.
It has always seemed to me that folks who have faced lives filled with brokenness and hardship are, in the same way, more able to appreciate God’s Grace, having experience the terrible emptiness of life without Him, that those of us who were raised in more religious environments did not encounter. They are able to sing with a special conviction in their voice, “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.”
I suppose the irony of it all is that each of us was just as lost, and just as blind, but we are unable to see the contrast as clearly. It seems that just as Ma Ma Maberry often said, “Ever cloud has a silver lining” for I sometime envy them their sharpness of focus on God’s Saving Grace.
May you experience God’s Saving Grace in a special way and be able to clearly focus on its impact in your life.
Bob
The Red Bud trees are starting to bloom now and the Dogwoods will not be far behind. We are beginning to back off on the amount of hay the cattle are being fed and soon they will turn up their noses at the dry brown hay in favor of the juicy green shoots beginning to cover the hillside pasture to the right of Kennedy Lane. The Yoshima Cherries are turning their radiant pink and white is emerging on every Bradford Pear. Soon all of us who still cut our own lawn will be checking to see if the blade on the lawnmower needs sharpening and that the engine will still start. Unlike the days when lawn mowing was something I did after work or in the precious few hour away from work on Saturdays, I now look forward to the yard work and the feeling of accomplishment it gives me when I finish a day of making the place look “shipshape.”
I love the warm weather, for I have a tremendous basis of comparison with life in the great white frozen north when winter set in about the beginning of November and lasted until nearly June. When the brown eyed girl and I lived in Grand Rapids Michigan, the annual snowfall often hovered around 75 inches but in some years was double that amount. I remember that in one particularly rough winter the snowfall nearly doubled the average and a whopping 20 inches fell in a single January storm which lasted little more than 24 hours. My family had not yet moved to Grand Rapids and I was a more or less permanent resident of the local Holiday Inn when the big blizzard of 78 came to Michigan. I woke up that morning to a 20 inch snowfall and 21 degrees below zero. As I was seriously debating with myself on the wisdom of accepting this assignment, I was also wondering if the little 1976 Vega I was driving would, by some miracle, start. It did not, but the Plant Protection people came out to pick me up in a four wheel drive Suburban.
I also remember my two little children hiding Easter eggs in the snow that year and the worry of the community centered around the fact that several of our school children had been injured by sliding off snow banks in front of oncoming cars while waiting for the school bus. One could scarcely tell where in the community you were located since it was difficult to find even a single landmark not covered by snow. Many careful drivers had placed tall bike poles with orange flags on the front bumper of their cars so others drivers would be able to know their whereabouts at four way intersections, since seeing over the snow banks was impossible. It was not uncommon to see neighbors on flatter roof surfaces with their snow blowers reducing the weight load on the rafters, or to see collapsed roofs on outbuilding that had not had that level of care.
Less common, but occurring on several occasions were “white outs,” where it became impossible to see out of the windows of your home or office because blowing snow whipping through the air completely obliterated the field of vision or where seeing even the hood of one’s own car became impossible.
Roads were attached by massive trucks with snow plows higher than my head, but even so main north/south arteries such as the 131 freeway sometimes ground to a halt as drifting and blowing snow packed underpasses with snow from pavement to the girders of the bridge overhead. Massive broken back front end loaders had to be trucked in and the snow loaded into tandem gravel haulers and trucked to the Grand River and dumped.
The winters we spent in Cleveland Ohio were scarcely better than the ones in Grand Rapids, and if I really want to remember what it is like to be cold, I simply remember back to the winter I spent in Korea with the Siberian wind swooping down and blowing through the Quonset huts in which we lived.
Yes, I know how to appreciate the spring and how to appreciate the mild weather of Middle Tennessee, even in colder winters like this one in 2009 and 2010, because I have seen how tough the winter is capable of being and what it is like to go days upon end without seeing a ray of sunshine and weeks upon weeks when the mercury never went above freezing, sometimes staying below zero for days at a time.
It has always seemed to me that folks who have faced lives filled with brokenness and hardship are, in the same way, more able to appreciate God’s Grace, having experience the terrible emptiness of life without Him, that those of us who were raised in more religious environments did not encounter. They are able to sing with a special conviction in their voice, “I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.”
I suppose the irony of it all is that each of us was just as lost, and just as blind, but we are unable to see the contrast as clearly. It seems that just as Ma Ma Maberry often said, “Ever cloud has a silver lining” for I sometime envy them their sharpness of focus on God’s Saving Grace.
May you experience God’s Saving Grace in a special way and be able to clearly focus on its impact in your life.
Bob
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
One Contemplating Missed Opportunities
Contemplating Missed Opportunities---------
Since we are on a little vacation, I think we might stop in Savannah tomorrow. I am a confirmed history nerd, and I love to visit places with rich history and try to imagine what they might have been like in “the day.” In Savannah’s case you can stroll down the riverfront of the city paved with cobble stones that were shipped to the old city as ballast in belly of sailing vessels that were to take cotton and tobacco back to England. The cotton exchanges and warehouses still stand and the old city cemeteries have interments that date back to those who came with James Oglethorpe in 1733. Not far away one may visit the historic Fort Pulaski which was in turn occupied by both Confederate and Union forces in the War Between the States. Like many of the other various port cities in the United States the riverfront was where the action was and shipping was the name of the game in the newly established colony of Georgia, named after King George of England.
I look forward to strolling along the riverfront and entering the little cafes that line that historic area where one must duck your head to avoid bumping your noggin on doors that were crafted when the average occupant of the city was much shorter (and undoubtedly much lighter) than today.
When we lived in Cleveland, Ohio the riverfront there had been much the same as the riverfront of Savannah in the early 1800s. I remember being on Fisherman’s Warf in San Francisco and seeing a lovely painting entitled “Night Arrival on the Cuyahoga.” The painting depicted the Cleveland Cuyahoga Riverfront as it had been in 1850 when Cleveland was a leading source of iron and steel production and an important industrial city in America. The old sailing ship was easing into its berth in a city that had not yet fallen on the hard times that were to come and the glow of lamp and lantern light was flooding out into the twilight of the darkened river. I loved the painting and considered buying it but convinced myself that the price and the inconvenience of bringing the piece back on the plane dictated I not go ahead and make the purchase.
The fact that I am today still thinking about the piece of art is proof that I have often wished that I had gone ahead and suffered the cost and the slight difficulty of returning with the picture and thus have been able to cherish it over the years. It was one of those instances in life when you have to make a choice and seize the moment or it is likely lost forever.
Life is like that, we are faced with choices on a daily basis and we must make a decision to seize the moment or the opportunity is lost forever. Most of the choices are of much greater importance than deciding if one should purchase a particular piece of art, since my life would continue much the same either with or without the painting. Many of those choices however, are life changing as we can see from the bad choices made by many of the current celebrities in the world of sports and politics of late. Faced with an opportunity to resist a bad choice, they failed and chose poorly. It is equally true that many of us when faced with an opportunity to do good linger, lag behind, and lose the opportunity forever. A chance to do the right thing, to make a choice for the right and the good, often comes but once. Another opportunity may present itself, but that moment is gone forever.
Let’s each of us purpose in our own hearts to seize the moment, to do the right thing, to take an opportunity to do make a choice for good when it is presented to us, and not find ourselves contemplating a missed opportunity years later.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Bob
Since we are on a little vacation, I think we might stop in Savannah tomorrow. I am a confirmed history nerd, and I love to visit places with rich history and try to imagine what they might have been like in “the day.” In Savannah’s case you can stroll down the riverfront of the city paved with cobble stones that were shipped to the old city as ballast in belly of sailing vessels that were to take cotton and tobacco back to England. The cotton exchanges and warehouses still stand and the old city cemeteries have interments that date back to those who came with James Oglethorpe in 1733. Not far away one may visit the historic Fort Pulaski which was in turn occupied by both Confederate and Union forces in the War Between the States. Like many of the other various port cities in the United States the riverfront was where the action was and shipping was the name of the game in the newly established colony of Georgia, named after King George of England.
I look forward to strolling along the riverfront and entering the little cafes that line that historic area where one must duck your head to avoid bumping your noggin on doors that were crafted when the average occupant of the city was much shorter (and undoubtedly much lighter) than today.
When we lived in Cleveland, Ohio the riverfront there had been much the same as the riverfront of Savannah in the early 1800s. I remember being on Fisherman’s Warf in San Francisco and seeing a lovely painting entitled “Night Arrival on the Cuyahoga.” The painting depicted the Cleveland Cuyahoga Riverfront as it had been in 1850 when Cleveland was a leading source of iron and steel production and an important industrial city in America. The old sailing ship was easing into its berth in a city that had not yet fallen on the hard times that were to come and the glow of lamp and lantern light was flooding out into the twilight of the darkened river. I loved the painting and considered buying it but convinced myself that the price and the inconvenience of bringing the piece back on the plane dictated I not go ahead and make the purchase.
The fact that I am today still thinking about the piece of art is proof that I have often wished that I had gone ahead and suffered the cost and the slight difficulty of returning with the picture and thus have been able to cherish it over the years. It was one of those instances in life when you have to make a choice and seize the moment or it is likely lost forever.
Life is like that, we are faced with choices on a daily basis and we must make a decision to seize the moment or the opportunity is lost forever. Most of the choices are of much greater importance than deciding if one should purchase a particular piece of art, since my life would continue much the same either with or without the painting. Many of those choices however, are life changing as we can see from the bad choices made by many of the current celebrities in the world of sports and politics of late. Faced with an opportunity to resist a bad choice, they failed and chose poorly. It is equally true that many of us when faced with an opportunity to do good linger, lag behind, and lose the opportunity forever. A chance to do the right thing, to make a choice for the right and the good, often comes but once. Another opportunity may present itself, but that moment is gone forever.
Let’s each of us purpose in our own hearts to seize the moment, to do the right thing, to take an opportunity to do make a choice for good when it is presented to us, and not find ourselves contemplating a missed opportunity years later.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Bob
Monday, March 22, 2010
One Fine Day
Adjusting Our Expectations----------
Sitting in St. Augustine, FL this morning on the beach I have been thinking about how our expectations migrate over the course of a life time. I remember the very first vacation that our family ever took. There were no vacations when we were a farm family, since Whitey and Gernsee the cows, didn’t understand our need for time off. If you were going away from home for even one night, you had to get someone to agree to feed and milk both morning and night, and most likely they had their own feeding and milking to get done.
When Mama and Daddy were store keepers, there was no time off since the store needed to be open from 6 or 7 in the morning until 8 or 9 at night and they were the only operators.
When Daddy finally went to work for the Highway Department (TDOT) after Frank Clement was elected Governor, and Mama went to work for the Steven’s Pants Factory, Daddy was awarded something he had never had before – a formal vacation period. There was a two week shut down at the pants factory, so sometime around 1954 we took our first real “family vacation.”
Aunt Thelma and Uncle U.L. were “home” from Michigan and we all decided to go to the Smokey Mountains National Park which had recently been dedicated to the American people by President Roosevelt. The direct route in those days was to take old Highway 70N east, winding up the backbone of ridges through Cookeville, on through Crossville, passing through Pigeon Forge (which was a non event in those days) and into the small village of Gatlinburg. Gatlinburg was a far cry from what you find there today. There were a few souvenir stands with false fronts and tent rear areas, much like one would find at the carnival and two or three “tourist courts” including one at what is now the end of town closest to the park entrance. We had taken two cars and on the way up stopped at a little roadside joint for a burger, which was a real event for us – we never, never, ate out in those days. In fact, eating out meant taking a watermelon down to the backyard and “eating out.”
I remember that it was a hot July day when we arrived at the chosen motor court and Mama and Daddy took the blankets off the bed and made a pallet for us on the floor, thinking they would not need covers in such hot weather. They had not counted on the thin cool mountain air and none of us slept very much since Mama and Daddy nearly froze before the night was over.
I could never have dreamed then of going to many of the places in the world to which I have been privileged to journey. But then few of us are able to seen into the future clearly enough to set our sights high enough or raise our expectations to a sufficiently high level.
When I hear folks discussing the joys or terrors of the life to come, it often occurs to me that like us in those days, it is impossible for us to set our expectations properly, because our life experience is not rich enough to do so. Just like I would have been unable to picture winding through the canals of Venice, strolling through Tokyo, eating in the finest establishments in Brazil, or driving on the Autobahn, neither am I able to adequately picture the beauty of the Great White Throne, the Streets of Gold, or the City Four Square. Conversely, I am likely unable to grasp the terrors of the Lake of Fire that burns forever.
One day though, one fine day, I hope to see, not through a glass darkly, but face to face and know the joys which my expectations could not imagine.
Have a blessed day, and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Sitting in St. Augustine, FL this morning on the beach I have been thinking about how our expectations migrate over the course of a life time. I remember the very first vacation that our family ever took. There were no vacations when we were a farm family, since Whitey and Gernsee the cows, didn’t understand our need for time off. If you were going away from home for even one night, you had to get someone to agree to feed and milk both morning and night, and most likely they had their own feeding and milking to get done.
When Mama and Daddy were store keepers, there was no time off since the store needed to be open from 6 or 7 in the morning until 8 or 9 at night and they were the only operators.
When Daddy finally went to work for the Highway Department (TDOT) after Frank Clement was elected Governor, and Mama went to work for the Steven’s Pants Factory, Daddy was awarded something he had never had before – a formal vacation period. There was a two week shut down at the pants factory, so sometime around 1954 we took our first real “family vacation.”
Aunt Thelma and Uncle U.L. were “home” from Michigan and we all decided to go to the Smokey Mountains National Park which had recently been dedicated to the American people by President Roosevelt. The direct route in those days was to take old Highway 70N east, winding up the backbone of ridges through Cookeville, on through Crossville, passing through Pigeon Forge (which was a non event in those days) and into the small village of Gatlinburg. Gatlinburg was a far cry from what you find there today. There were a few souvenir stands with false fronts and tent rear areas, much like one would find at the carnival and two or three “tourist courts” including one at what is now the end of town closest to the park entrance. We had taken two cars and on the way up stopped at a little roadside joint for a burger, which was a real event for us – we never, never, ate out in those days. In fact, eating out meant taking a watermelon down to the backyard and “eating out.”
I remember that it was a hot July day when we arrived at the chosen motor court and Mama and Daddy took the blankets off the bed and made a pallet for us on the floor, thinking they would not need covers in such hot weather. They had not counted on the thin cool mountain air and none of us slept very much since Mama and Daddy nearly froze before the night was over.
I could never have dreamed then of going to many of the places in the world to which I have been privileged to journey. But then few of us are able to seen into the future clearly enough to set our sights high enough or raise our expectations to a sufficiently high level.
When I hear folks discussing the joys or terrors of the life to come, it often occurs to me that like us in those days, it is impossible for us to set our expectations properly, because our life experience is not rich enough to do so. Just like I would have been unable to picture winding through the canals of Venice, strolling through Tokyo, eating in the finest establishments in Brazil, or driving on the Autobahn, neither am I able to adequately picture the beauty of the Great White Throne, the Streets of Gold, or the City Four Square. Conversely, I am likely unable to grasp the terrors of the Lake of Fire that burns forever.
One day though, one fine day, I hope to see, not through a glass darkly, but face to face and know the joys which my expectations could not imagine.
Have a blessed day, and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
You Send Me - and If I get the chance, I Send You.
You Send Me -------------
Do you suppose anyone plays croquet anymore? When my sister and I were about 12 and 8 respectively my parents bought us a croquet set. I don’t know what the occasion was, but it was probably either for some special occasion or one of us got it as a reward for some good deed. I do remember that Daddy took us down to the Western Auto Store, where Mr. Clyde White was sitting under the striped awning just outside the front door. He was perched on one of those little short 3 foot ladders having a morning smoke and a cup of coffee as the town came awake. He asked if he could help us and Daddy said, “Well sir, we are looking for a real good croquet set. You got anything like that?”
Now Daddy was one of those people who seldom asked a question unless he already knew the answer and that was the case in this instance. The weekly circular which was tucked inside the Nashville Banner had an advertized special on croquet sets and the price was right. So with our new croquet set tucked in the back of the old grey Buick, Donnieta, Daddy and I rushed home to set up the court.
The rules, as I remember them, were fairly simple. The wire wickets were set up in a double diamond shape with double wickets and a stake at either end of the diamonds. The object was to pass through each wicket in turn and be the first player to return to and hit the stake from which he started. Passing through a wicket gave one an extra turn, passing through two wickets gave one two extra turns, and hitting another players ball gave one two turns.
Hitting another’s ball was where the fun and competitive spirit entered into the fray. A player could take one stroke to set the ball one mallets length from the opponent’s ball in any direction; then use the second stroke to clear a wicket. Or, even more fun, one could use one stroke to snug the ball up to the opponent’s ball that had been hit, put your foot on your own ball and wail away at it which by transferred force sent the opponents ball flying far away from their desired location. Having hit their ball again gave one another two strokes to advance while the opposition tried to recover. We called it “sending” someone’s ball and I always took the opportunity to “send” someone’s ball, even if that play was not strategically sound. I just liked to see the look on their face.
When one of the gas stations on the lower end of town was demolished, Daddy saved the big white reflective hoods from the commercial signage and put them up in our backyard. It became the croquet and badminton court for the neighborhood and many a summer night was spent there with other kids from the neighborhood. I don’t know if anyone plays the game anymore, but if so, it probably is on a Wii version.
It was good clean fun, didn’t require a great deal of skill to participate, satisfied our naturally competitive nature, and allowed us to “knock the stuffing” out of someone’s ball without the act being socially unacceptable. I suppose it was sometimes a metaphor for what we would have liked to do to their head.
Occasionally, we would play “doubles” where we teamed up with another person and tried to work together to bring our “team” in by having both team members round the field of play before anyone else. It not only heightened the amount of strategy required, it made the game more interesting and taught us something about synergy.
I think Christianity is a “team sport” in some ways since each of us has a responsibility not only for ourselves but for “one another.” If you want to be shocked, go and look up the number of instructions given in the New Testament concerning “One Another.” We are instructed to Love One Another, Put Up With (forbear is the bible word) One Another, Consider One Another, and Provoke One Another to Love and Good Works. We are pretty good at Provoking One Another, but often not to Love and Good Works. On and on the instruction goes, making it clear that we have a responsibility to God first, others second, and self last, thus “the first shall be last.”
Let’s be always aware of our responsibility to one another and the good that can be achieved, and reaped, by being part of a community of faith.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN. Bob
Do you suppose anyone plays croquet anymore? When my sister and I were about 12 and 8 respectively my parents bought us a croquet set. I don’t know what the occasion was, but it was probably either for some special occasion or one of us got it as a reward for some good deed. I do remember that Daddy took us down to the Western Auto Store, where Mr. Clyde White was sitting under the striped awning just outside the front door. He was perched on one of those little short 3 foot ladders having a morning smoke and a cup of coffee as the town came awake. He asked if he could help us and Daddy said, “Well sir, we are looking for a real good croquet set. You got anything like that?”
Now Daddy was one of those people who seldom asked a question unless he already knew the answer and that was the case in this instance. The weekly circular which was tucked inside the Nashville Banner had an advertized special on croquet sets and the price was right. So with our new croquet set tucked in the back of the old grey Buick, Donnieta, Daddy and I rushed home to set up the court.
The rules, as I remember them, were fairly simple. The wire wickets were set up in a double diamond shape with double wickets and a stake at either end of the diamonds. The object was to pass through each wicket in turn and be the first player to return to and hit the stake from which he started. Passing through a wicket gave one an extra turn, passing through two wickets gave one two extra turns, and hitting another players ball gave one two turns.
Hitting another’s ball was where the fun and competitive spirit entered into the fray. A player could take one stroke to set the ball one mallets length from the opponent’s ball in any direction; then use the second stroke to clear a wicket. Or, even more fun, one could use one stroke to snug the ball up to the opponent’s ball that had been hit, put your foot on your own ball and wail away at it which by transferred force sent the opponents ball flying far away from their desired location. Having hit their ball again gave one another two strokes to advance while the opposition tried to recover. We called it “sending” someone’s ball and I always took the opportunity to “send” someone’s ball, even if that play was not strategically sound. I just liked to see the look on their face.
When one of the gas stations on the lower end of town was demolished, Daddy saved the big white reflective hoods from the commercial signage and put them up in our backyard. It became the croquet and badminton court for the neighborhood and many a summer night was spent there with other kids from the neighborhood. I don’t know if anyone plays the game anymore, but if so, it probably is on a Wii version.
It was good clean fun, didn’t require a great deal of skill to participate, satisfied our naturally competitive nature, and allowed us to “knock the stuffing” out of someone’s ball without the act being socially unacceptable. I suppose it was sometimes a metaphor for what we would have liked to do to their head.
Occasionally, we would play “doubles” where we teamed up with another person and tried to work together to bring our “team” in by having both team members round the field of play before anyone else. It not only heightened the amount of strategy required, it made the game more interesting and taught us something about synergy.
I think Christianity is a “team sport” in some ways since each of us has a responsibility not only for ourselves but for “one another.” If you want to be shocked, go and look up the number of instructions given in the New Testament concerning “One Another.” We are instructed to Love One Another, Put Up With (forbear is the bible word) One Another, Consider One Another, and Provoke One Another to Love and Good Works. We are pretty good at Provoking One Another, but often not to Love and Good Works. On and on the instruction goes, making it clear that we have a responsibility to God first, others second, and self last, thus “the first shall be last.”
Let’s be always aware of our responsibility to one another and the good that can be achieved, and reaped, by being part of a community of faith.
Have a blessed day and visit us at Maple Hill Church, a church of Christ in Lebanon, TN. Bob
Thursday, March 11, 2010
It’s a Southern Thing
It’s a Southern Thing.----------
Southerners have a thing about names – nick names and double names. I know that I myself have been called Buddy, Bob, Robert, R.C., and those are only the ones fit for publication. As I think back about our high school we had Skull, Bones, Hard Dog, Bull Dog, Mad Dog, Butch, Buddy, Hound Dog, Monk, Buck, Wish, Pappy, Lecil Diesel, Snookie, Little Bit, Bullhead, Tea Pot, Crip, Wild Bill, Cuck, Boon and a whole host of ones I either cannot remember or am unwilling to commit to print. It was a mark of being an “alright guy” to be called by a nick name and we all fell in line with the expectations of a small town.
We also had Emily Sue, George Lloyd, Charlie Bob, Betty Ann, Betty Jo, Betty Jean, Mary Bell, Mary Ann, Mary Lou, Mary Sue, Velma Jo, Jessie Mai, Martha Ann, Erma Jean and on and on like a whose who of small Southern town debutants.
We spent our afternoons at the Dairy Freeze, our nights at the skating rink under the big tent, and our summers at the swimming pool – or in my case on the farm. A party was when some girl had a group over to play the latest 45 RPM records. The boys (who did not dance) watched while the girls “Bopped” with one another to “Peggy Sue” or “Run Around Sue” or some other record, generally centered around a girl’s name.
Sunday afternoons were spent “riding around” in whoever was lucky enough to get the family station wagon, or have their own jalopy.
“Wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, wha’da’you wanna do?”
“I don know”
The only thing we knew for sure was we did not want to go home where parental questioning and homework awaited. So, five hours later –
“Well, wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, time for me to go’ta church”
“see ya”
Or perhaps we would go to the Dairy Queen and see if any girls were “riding around,” if so we could perhaps make some swaps and end up “riding around” with girls instead of just each other. That sounded like a much better plan, but was seldom fully executed since all of the girls old enough to go to the Dairy Queen or be “riding around,” soon were snapped up by older guys who were “riding around” in much nicer cars.
Occasionally we actually left town and went “riding around” in Lebanon or Hartsville, which was a risky pastime since the local boys were defending their turf and had home court advantage anyway. Sometime it resulted in an invitation by one or more of the other town’s football team to leave under your own steam or take the consequences. Don’t know what the consequences were, since my buddies and I always left without taking the time to find out the alternative.
Less frequently, we ended up doing something really dumb like climbing the old metal water tank with CARTHAGE painted in black letters, and tossing pebbles down on Mr. Mack’s roof just to see him run out and look in all directions but up.
Yeah, Sundays were slow and names were important and to some extent small southern towns are still like they were 50 years ago. Names are still important and Sundays are still slow. We still think it is important to wear the name Christian and we Slow Down long enough to stop and assemble with others to worship God. Don’t you wish everywhere was still like this?
Have a blessed day, Bob
Southerners have a thing about names – nick names and double names. I know that I myself have been called Buddy, Bob, Robert, R.C., and those are only the ones fit for publication. As I think back about our high school we had Skull, Bones, Hard Dog, Bull Dog, Mad Dog, Butch, Buddy, Hound Dog, Monk, Buck, Wish, Pappy, Lecil Diesel, Snookie, Little Bit, Bullhead, Tea Pot, Crip, Wild Bill, Cuck, Boon and a whole host of ones I either cannot remember or am unwilling to commit to print. It was a mark of being an “alright guy” to be called by a nick name and we all fell in line with the expectations of a small town.
We also had Emily Sue, George Lloyd, Charlie Bob, Betty Ann, Betty Jo, Betty Jean, Mary Bell, Mary Ann, Mary Lou, Mary Sue, Velma Jo, Jessie Mai, Martha Ann, Erma Jean and on and on like a whose who of small Southern town debutants.
We spent our afternoons at the Dairy Freeze, our nights at the skating rink under the big tent, and our summers at the swimming pool – or in my case on the farm. A party was when some girl had a group over to play the latest 45 RPM records. The boys (who did not dance) watched while the girls “Bopped” with one another to “Peggy Sue” or “Run Around Sue” or some other record, generally centered around a girl’s name.
Sunday afternoons were spent “riding around” in whoever was lucky enough to get the family station wagon, or have their own jalopy.
“Wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, wha’da’you wanna do?”
“I don know”
The only thing we knew for sure was we did not want to go home where parental questioning and homework awaited. So, five hours later –
“Well, wha’da’ya wanna do?”
“I don know, time for me to go’ta church”
“see ya”
Or perhaps we would go to the Dairy Queen and see if any girls were “riding around,” if so we could perhaps make some swaps and end up “riding around” with girls instead of just each other. That sounded like a much better plan, but was seldom fully executed since all of the girls old enough to go to the Dairy Queen or be “riding around,” soon were snapped up by older guys who were “riding around” in much nicer cars.
Occasionally we actually left town and went “riding around” in Lebanon or Hartsville, which was a risky pastime since the local boys were defending their turf and had home court advantage anyway. Sometime it resulted in an invitation by one or more of the other town’s football team to leave under your own steam or take the consequences. Don’t know what the consequences were, since my buddies and I always left without taking the time to find out the alternative.
Less frequently, we ended up doing something really dumb like climbing the old metal water tank with CARTHAGE painted in black letters, and tossing pebbles down on Mr. Mack’s roof just to see him run out and look in all directions but up.
Yeah, Sundays were slow and names were important and to some extent small southern towns are still like they were 50 years ago. Names are still important and Sundays are still slow. We still think it is important to wear the name Christian and we Slow Down long enough to stop and assemble with others to worship God. Don’t you wish everywhere was still like this?
Have a blessed day, Bob
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