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
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Christian College First - Remembering DLC
Remembering the late David Lipscomb College--------------------------------------- I remember what it was like the very first time I walked onto the David Lipscomb College campus as a student. It was September and Freshman Week began on Tuesday but we were able to check in to the Dorm on Sunday. The only thing was, I was not checking in to the dorm, I was going to be “rooming” with my sister and her husband. They had been married only a couple of years and were going through the usual struggles of a newly married couple; and my dad had made an arrangement with them to allow me to room with them which would permit them to move out of the tiny apartment they had just off 12th avenue, south of Shelby Park, and into a duplex on Warfield Drive, near Green Hills Mall. The Mall was then what would later be called a “strip mall” since Cain Sloan, the anchor store was not connected with the other stores which shared a common parking spot, except by a covered sidewalk.
So I didn’t go to the campus directly, I went to the house where not only was I moving in, my sister and her husband were moving in also.
It was the beautiful fall of 1962, and John F. Kennedy was president. He had just affirmed to the world that America would put a man on the moon by the end of that decade and Fidel Castro had begun to make deals with the Soviet Union that the world was finding increasingly uncomfortable. Not to be outdone by Fats Domino, an artist by the name of Chubby Checker had introduced a song called “The Twist” and everybody was doing the dance it suggested. Tony Bennett was riding the top of the charts with “I left my heart in San Francisco” and Bobby Vinton was telling the world that “Roses are Red my love.” The Contours were asking,”Do You Love Me?” and Ray Charles was answering with, “I can’t stop loving you.” My personal favorites were “The Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler and “The Wanderer” by Dion. As I left Carthage, striking out into the world on the new adventure of college, I could indeed picture myself as “The Wanderer.” I suppose it escaped me that I was going to a Christian College with copious rules, to be living with my big sister, her husband and new baby, Jeff. Somewhat limited freedom by today’s standards.
It was not until the next day after move in that I took the first tentative walk over to the campus and discovered that my walk to school was to be some mile and one half each day. But, I was used to walking, had no car nor any hopes of getting one, besides, freshmen were not allowed cars in those days anyway. The first trip was just a recon to see who might be moving in and discover if there were any friendly faces in the crowd. There were plenty of friendly faces, but all of them were strangers looking for some other friendly face, just as was I.
It was not until the next day I began to make some acquaintances in earnest, having discovered that the walk home from campus after dark was very long, especially it rain was falling. Things were beginning to build to the school year in earnest by Tuesday evening and it was then that I discovered that my cousin Morris Mabry had come to school early to “check out the freshman talent,” in his words. He greeted me with the news that Jan Lafever, a mutual friend from Detroit, eventually to be know as the brown eyed girl, had decided to come to Lipscomb as a freshman and was indeed in that very Student Center.
By Thursday of freshman week various upperclassmen were beginning to show up providing familiar faces, and the “Faculty Fireside” that night followed the “Freshman Mixer” earlier in the evening in which we played various renamed versions of hide and seek and red rover. And yes, Red Rover by any other name is just as juvenile. On Friday the freshmen were taken to Percy Warner Park and various games were the order of the day. I passed the girls softball and noted with some surprise that the brown eyed girl was pitching for the home team, or was it the other team, I forget. She didn't seem like the pitcher type, but I was to learn that she was much more rugged than she appeared.
By the weekend, the real college students had all arrived and the campus was jumping and I loved it, I loved every bit of it, because I had never been away from home before, and never been with so many young people who did not already have you pegged into that old high school pigeon hole. All things were new and you were able to get a fresh start. I didn’t join the band, much to everyone’s surprise, but became friends with folks who were in class and with the guys with whom my cousin was running around. I soon didn’t even mind the walk since it gave me time to think and smoke, a nasty habit I had acquired in high school, could not pursue on campus, and would not give up for another ten years or so.. As for the brown eyed girl, she and I were “just friends” and might end up hanging out together on campus, or going with a group somewhere, but she was clearly uninterested in any romantic involvement, with anyone - probably most especially me.
Faculty Fireside was quite an experience since a number of us ended up “left over” and were caught going to the Home Economics, Home Management House to spend fireside with Miss Margret Carter. It was raining a slow drizzle outside and since none of us had a car, we ended up walking in the steady rain. The brown eyed girl was also in that group of leftovers and had on a pair of red flat shoes, which were ruined by the time we got to our destination. That was the first time I noticed her affinity for red shoes. In don’t think since that time she has been without a pair of red shoes, which she claims brightens you day if you are feeling blue.
The following week we all settled into classes and I learned that the competitive field at David Lipscomb College was somewhat more challenging than Smith County High School. Everything was graded on a strict curve, particularly in the freshman year which meant that 20 – 25 percent of the students in a given class were likely to receive a D or an F in that class. Lipscomb had an open enrollment policy which meant anyone could apply and enter, but in your first sessions students were invited to look to their right and their left and note that one of the three of you would not survive beyond the first quarter, and that two of the three of you would not return the following year. I didn’t know if my goose was cooked, but I knew it was pretty warm.
Now that I look back I find myself glad that God does not grade on a curve. With Him we are judged not by the performance or spirituality of others, but by his own standard, highly tempered with Grace and Mercy. And He allows us a fresh start, to escape the pigeonhole into which we have placed ourselves. All things are new.
I survived the first quarter with only a D in Biology and survived the first year with only an additional D in Physics. No more Ds were in my future, thankfully. In spite of the hard work in front of me, it might have been one of the most exciting years of my life. It is a place that holds a special fondness in my heart. "Christian College First" was the phrase our two sons would hear over and over and they both graduated from DLU. One went on to get an MBA from Vanderbilt, but "Christian College First".
God Bless, Bob
So I didn’t go to the campus directly, I went to the house where not only was I moving in, my sister and her husband were moving in also.
It was the beautiful fall of 1962, and John F. Kennedy was president. He had just affirmed to the world that America would put a man on the moon by the end of that decade and Fidel Castro had begun to make deals with the Soviet Union that the world was finding increasingly uncomfortable. Not to be outdone by Fats Domino, an artist by the name of Chubby Checker had introduced a song called “The Twist” and everybody was doing the dance it suggested. Tony Bennett was riding the top of the charts with “I left my heart in San Francisco” and Bobby Vinton was telling the world that “Roses are Red my love.” The Contours were asking,”Do You Love Me?” and Ray Charles was answering with, “I can’t stop loving you.” My personal favorites were “The Duke of Earl” by Gene Chandler and “The Wanderer” by Dion. As I left Carthage, striking out into the world on the new adventure of college, I could indeed picture myself as “The Wanderer.” I suppose it escaped me that I was going to a Christian College with copious rules, to be living with my big sister, her husband and new baby, Jeff. Somewhat limited freedom by today’s standards.
It was not until the next day after move in that I took the first tentative walk over to the campus and discovered that my walk to school was to be some mile and one half each day. But, I was used to walking, had no car nor any hopes of getting one, besides, freshmen were not allowed cars in those days anyway. The first trip was just a recon to see who might be moving in and discover if there were any friendly faces in the crowd. There were plenty of friendly faces, but all of them were strangers looking for some other friendly face, just as was I.
It was not until the next day I began to make some acquaintances in earnest, having discovered that the walk home from campus after dark was very long, especially it rain was falling. Things were beginning to build to the school year in earnest by Tuesday evening and it was then that I discovered that my cousin Morris Mabry had come to school early to “check out the freshman talent,” in his words. He greeted me with the news that Jan Lafever, a mutual friend from Detroit, eventually to be know as the brown eyed girl, had decided to come to Lipscomb as a freshman and was indeed in that very Student Center.
By Thursday of freshman week various upperclassmen were beginning to show up providing familiar faces, and the “Faculty Fireside” that night followed the “Freshman Mixer” earlier in the evening in which we played various renamed versions of hide and seek and red rover. And yes, Red Rover by any other name is just as juvenile. On Friday the freshmen were taken to Percy Warner Park and various games were the order of the day. I passed the girls softball and noted with some surprise that the brown eyed girl was pitching for the home team, or was it the other team, I forget. She didn't seem like the pitcher type, but I was to learn that she was much more rugged than she appeared.
By the weekend, the real college students had all arrived and the campus was jumping and I loved it, I loved every bit of it, because I had never been away from home before, and never been with so many young people who did not already have you pegged into that old high school pigeon hole. All things were new and you were able to get a fresh start. I didn’t join the band, much to everyone’s surprise, but became friends with folks who were in class and with the guys with whom my cousin was running around. I soon didn’t even mind the walk since it gave me time to think and smoke, a nasty habit I had acquired in high school, could not pursue on campus, and would not give up for another ten years or so.. As for the brown eyed girl, she and I were “just friends” and might end up hanging out together on campus, or going with a group somewhere, but she was clearly uninterested in any romantic involvement, with anyone - probably most especially me.
Faculty Fireside was quite an experience since a number of us ended up “left over” and were caught going to the Home Economics, Home Management House to spend fireside with Miss Margret Carter. It was raining a slow drizzle outside and since none of us had a car, we ended up walking in the steady rain. The brown eyed girl was also in that group of leftovers and had on a pair of red flat shoes, which were ruined by the time we got to our destination. That was the first time I noticed her affinity for red shoes. In don’t think since that time she has been without a pair of red shoes, which she claims brightens you day if you are feeling blue.
The following week we all settled into classes and I learned that the competitive field at David Lipscomb College was somewhat more challenging than Smith County High School. Everything was graded on a strict curve, particularly in the freshman year which meant that 20 – 25 percent of the students in a given class were likely to receive a D or an F in that class. Lipscomb had an open enrollment policy which meant anyone could apply and enter, but in your first sessions students were invited to look to their right and their left and note that one of the three of you would not survive beyond the first quarter, and that two of the three of you would not return the following year. I didn’t know if my goose was cooked, but I knew it was pretty warm.
Now that I look back I find myself glad that God does not grade on a curve. With Him we are judged not by the performance or spirituality of others, but by his own standard, highly tempered with Grace and Mercy. And He allows us a fresh start, to escape the pigeonhole into which we have placed ourselves. All things are new.
I survived the first quarter with only a D in Biology and survived the first year with only an additional D in Physics. No more Ds were in my future, thankfully. In spite of the hard work in front of me, it might have been one of the most exciting years of my life. It is a place that holds a special fondness in my heart. "Christian College First" was the phrase our two sons would hear over and over and they both graduated from DLU. One went on to get an MBA from Vanderbilt, but "Christian College First".
God Bless, Bob
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Remembering Earl Mabery
So….How do you spell Mabery? Apparently, any way you want to, since among my numerous friends and relatives with the last name Mabery, each of them seems to spell it differently. (Mayberry, Maberry, Mabery, Mabry…..)
Yesterday I learned that Earl Mabery, the big bother of my long time best friend, had succumbed to the ravages of a fast moving brain cancer. Scarcely two months ago, he had been alive and seemingly well and we were all planning a cruise to the Caribbean together next March. You see, not only was Earl a big brother to Richard, my best friend for some 40 years, he was my friend too. Richard, who passed away a few years back, had been the catalyst that brought Earl and his wife Gladys, into our lives, but it was Earl and Gladys themselves who drew us to them. They couldn’t do enough nice things for people.
After being buds at Lipscomb University, Richard and I were inducted into the U.S. Army on the same day, standing heels to toes in the line. Our service numbers were only one number apart and for the next two years we were never far apart either.
It was Earl who loaned Richard and me his brand new, green Ford Fairlane Convertible so the four of us, Jan, Sandy, Richard, and I could take a first trip to Florida before our induction date. I almost wrecked it on a north Georgia backroad.
It was Earl who drove us to the old Fort Street Train Station and then took the tearful wives home when we departed to Fort Knox for basic training. The brown eyed girl and Sandra, Richard’s wife, lived together much of the time we were gone, at least a portion of the time at the home of Richard and Earl’s parents who were two of the most unique and likable people one could ever know, but that is another whole story.
It was Earl who drove us at a highly illegal speed from Detroit Metro Airport to the Toledo Ohio airport when our flight had been canceled and we were in imminent danger of being AWOL within a few hours.
It was Earl and Gladys who prepared a going away party for us when we left and a welcome home party for us when we returned. It was at the welcome home party that Gladys gave me my most memorable haircut. I had gone by a barber shop near the GM Tech Center to get a trim after just arriving home from overseas and the barber either was drunk, or hated soldiers, (it was Vietnam and we were “baby killers”). I left the shop with a haircut that caused the brown eyed girl to gasp in horror when I picked her up from work. At the welcome home party that night, Gladys decided to remedy the haircut with a gadget she had purchased from K-Tel; she spread a towel around my neck and went to work. It was a little like eating chitterlings, the more she bit off and chewed the bigger the job got. When she was finally through, I can’t say I looked worse, since that was probably not possible, but I can say I am glad the GM was obligated to give me my job back.
After our discharge, we all lived in the little town of East Detroit, Michigan, which has now gone uptown and become East Point, Michigan, and Gladys and Earl were forever doing something nice for us. Gladys would call and ask Jan if she could keep the boys while Jan got her hair fixed of did some shopping, and Earl, who loved the water and outdoors, was always inviting us to the cottage they owned on Rondo Bay in Canada. There we boated, once even crossing Lake Erie and back, skated on the frozen canals in the winter, and dipped smelt and cooked them up right on the beach. Sandy Dean and Crystal, their older teenagers, provided handy and dependable baby sitters at a time when urban myth had babies being cooked in the microwave by a teenager high on LSD. Kim was a little young for babysitting duty but may have snuck in on the tail end of that experience. We were forever moving into and out of town with GM’s Relocation Services being our closest confidants, but when we came back to town Gladys and Earl were always there, always hospitable, and always fun.
In these later years since Richard’s passing, we have caught them annually at St. Augustine, where Sandra lives. They go down each year for a month or three and rent a place close to Sandra. We get down at the tail end of March when I no longer have to feed those big round rolls of hay to the cattle and we all catch up on kids, grandkids, and in their case, great grandkids. We tell old stories, walk on the beach, tell old stories, get coffee and doughnuts from Publix, tell old stories, and play trivia at the local bar and grille. We don’t win, but we like to play. Oh, and did I mention, we tell old stories.
It was always evident to me that Earl was Richard’s biggest hero, and to some degree probably mine also. He was able to argue without losing his temper, find a good thing in everyone, generous to a fault, had a big heart and a great sense of humor. He delighted in egging the girls on, a trait he gained from his father, and watching them rise to the bait.
He was interested in everything and as a resulting interesting at all times. Fun to be with and until the very end, never seemed to have a bad day, although I knew that he had suffered greatly with a neuralgia difficulty. An altogether pleasant fellow whom anyone would be happy to call their friend. Active to his last days, I can only be thankful he did not linger long in an invalid state; he would have wanted nothing to do with any such thing. I said earlier today when talking to my son on the phone, “Earl was a guy who always found the best in people.” He replied, “would that someone could say that about each of us when we are gone.”
Isn’t it just the most surprising thing when your offspring come up with such wise reflections? One day you turn around and life has passed and your children are making sage remarks.
Rest in Peace, Earl. Our Love, Buddy and Jan
Yesterday I learned that Earl Mabery, the big bother of my long time best friend, had succumbed to the ravages of a fast moving brain cancer. Scarcely two months ago, he had been alive and seemingly well and we were all planning a cruise to the Caribbean together next March. You see, not only was Earl a big brother to Richard, my best friend for some 40 years, he was my friend too. Richard, who passed away a few years back, had been the catalyst that brought Earl and his wife Gladys, into our lives, but it was Earl and Gladys themselves who drew us to them. They couldn’t do enough nice things for people.
After being buds at Lipscomb University, Richard and I were inducted into the U.S. Army on the same day, standing heels to toes in the line. Our service numbers were only one number apart and for the next two years we were never far apart either.
It was Earl who loaned Richard and me his brand new, green Ford Fairlane Convertible so the four of us, Jan, Sandy, Richard, and I could take a first trip to Florida before our induction date. I almost wrecked it on a north Georgia backroad.
It was Earl who drove us to the old Fort Street Train Station and then took the tearful wives home when we departed to Fort Knox for basic training. The brown eyed girl and Sandra, Richard’s wife, lived together much of the time we were gone, at least a portion of the time at the home of Richard and Earl’s parents who were two of the most unique and likable people one could ever know, but that is another whole story.
It was Earl who drove us at a highly illegal speed from Detroit Metro Airport to the Toledo Ohio airport when our flight had been canceled and we were in imminent danger of being AWOL within a few hours.
It was Earl and Gladys who prepared a going away party for us when we left and a welcome home party for us when we returned. It was at the welcome home party that Gladys gave me my most memorable haircut. I had gone by a barber shop near the GM Tech Center to get a trim after just arriving home from overseas and the barber either was drunk, or hated soldiers, (it was Vietnam and we were “baby killers”). I left the shop with a haircut that caused the brown eyed girl to gasp in horror when I picked her up from work. At the welcome home party that night, Gladys decided to remedy the haircut with a gadget she had purchased from K-Tel; she spread a towel around my neck and went to work. It was a little like eating chitterlings, the more she bit off and chewed the bigger the job got. When she was finally through, I can’t say I looked worse, since that was probably not possible, but I can say I am glad the GM was obligated to give me my job back.
After our discharge, we all lived in the little town of East Detroit, Michigan, which has now gone uptown and become East Point, Michigan, and Gladys and Earl were forever doing something nice for us. Gladys would call and ask Jan if she could keep the boys while Jan got her hair fixed of did some shopping, and Earl, who loved the water and outdoors, was always inviting us to the cottage they owned on Rondo Bay in Canada. There we boated, once even crossing Lake Erie and back, skated on the frozen canals in the winter, and dipped smelt and cooked them up right on the beach. Sandy Dean and Crystal, their older teenagers, provided handy and dependable baby sitters at a time when urban myth had babies being cooked in the microwave by a teenager high on LSD. Kim was a little young for babysitting duty but may have snuck in on the tail end of that experience. We were forever moving into and out of town with GM’s Relocation Services being our closest confidants, but when we came back to town Gladys and Earl were always there, always hospitable, and always fun.
In these later years since Richard’s passing, we have caught them annually at St. Augustine, where Sandra lives. They go down each year for a month or three and rent a place close to Sandra. We get down at the tail end of March when I no longer have to feed those big round rolls of hay to the cattle and we all catch up on kids, grandkids, and in their case, great grandkids. We tell old stories, walk on the beach, tell old stories, get coffee and doughnuts from Publix, tell old stories, and play trivia at the local bar and grille. We don’t win, but we like to play. Oh, and did I mention, we tell old stories.
It was always evident to me that Earl was Richard’s biggest hero, and to some degree probably mine also. He was able to argue without losing his temper, find a good thing in everyone, generous to a fault, had a big heart and a great sense of humor. He delighted in egging the girls on, a trait he gained from his father, and watching them rise to the bait.
He was interested in everything and as a resulting interesting at all times. Fun to be with and until the very end, never seemed to have a bad day, although I knew that he had suffered greatly with a neuralgia difficulty. An altogether pleasant fellow whom anyone would be happy to call their friend. Active to his last days, I can only be thankful he did not linger long in an invalid state; he would have wanted nothing to do with any such thing. I said earlier today when talking to my son on the phone, “Earl was a guy who always found the best in people.” He replied, “would that someone could say that about each of us when we are gone.”
Isn’t it just the most surprising thing when your offspring come up with such wise reflections? One day you turn around and life has passed and your children are making sage remarks.
Rest in Peace, Earl. Our Love, Buddy and Jan
Friday, July 9, 2010
Prologue for Pore Folks, Potlucks, and Parables
This is the prologue from my latest book, Pore Folks, Potlucks, and Parables. Let me know if you would like a signed and personalized copy. Bob
This Evolving World We Live In-----
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, things were very different than they are in this land in which you and I live, even if perchance your address has remained static. No one I knew could even pronounce Vietnam, nor did they know or care where it was, or who was in charge of it. Harry, Ike, and Jack were our presidents in these times and, unlike the land we now live in, we all wanted to believe that they were true, capable and cared about each of us.
We watched June Clever on TV and did not even question why she wore pearls around her neck, high heels on her feet, and an apron around her waist when Ward came home for dinner – we wanted to believe that world and wanted to be part of it. We watched Uncle Milty perform on the Texaco Hour, dressed in drag every week and did not question his sexual orientation; in fact we would have likely not known what that meant. Watching Red Skelton turn his hat upside down and be a little boy, or get dragged under the curtain every Sunday night never ceased to be funny. Some moms worked outside the home but most stayed home and took care of the kids.
We took our cars to filling stations with big porches for us to drive under and the man who ran it came out in a uniform and filled the tank, checked the oil and water, put air in the tires, and tore off some green stamps which you mother could trade for toasters, and electric skillets. Lots of mothers could not drive and no self respecting man would ride in a car with a woman driving – it was un-manly. A good sized house was 2000 square feet and often less, and a farm could be bought for 7 thousand dollars.
Rock and Roll was just hitting the radio, but Your Hit Parade was what everyone was watching on TV. No one thought Rock and Roll was here to stay, except the teenagers – Frank, Perry, Rosemary, and Dean were where it was at on the music scene, and the other was just a passing fad.
Words were used differently and a hoe was what you used to chop the garden, if you were gay you were only lively and happy, no one thought regular people would ever become dope eaters. Alternate lifestyles, live-ins, and Johnny has Two Mommies were meaningless phrases and most of us were without a clue concerning those things and wished to stay that way. People could be pro-choice and pro-life both then, they were not mutually exclusive term.
When I was growing up in Carthage we went to Prayer Meeting on Wednesday night. Bread came in two distinct groups, that which you made at home which included Corn Pone and Hoe Cakes or Biscuits and yeast rolls or you could eat Loaf bread from the store. We had Arsh (Irish)_ potatoes and sweet potatoes with dried beans – never white beans or great northerns. Adie made teacakes (cookies) every Saturday and we kept the milk cold in the frigidare. When we went to the store we had thing put in a poke, never a bag like now or a sack like up north. Old men wore shoes through the week, but slippers on Sunday. Everyone went to the grocery store to get food, and no one went to a Supermarket. On Halloween we had a punkin and pumpkin seemed pretentious. We got dog tired and my grandmother said you were bilious when your stomach hurt. The few cars that had turn signals we said to have blinkers and I suspect my grandchildren will never know what fender skirts were. Our fathers took a turn of corn to mill and our grandmothers kept flour in the flour barrel. When we were sick we went to the drug store and bought patent medicine.
In those days no one had ever heard of NASA, and the moon just might still be made of green cheese. Cars and homes didn’t have air conditioning and businesses that did advertized “Come inside it’s Cool” Pantyhose was not know as a single word, and women going into public barelegged was as unthinkable as a preacher wearing a Speedo in the pulpit. Church houses in the country did not have pews, they had benches, and a Sanctuary was a place birds were kept. No one had ministers, or pastors, but everyone had preachers and that was their main job description. Businesses had calculators and comptometers and Dell was a valley, Gateway was something you walked through, and Apple was something you ate. People dressed up to go to church and wore ties to go shopping downtown. Women wore white gloves on their hands and girdles on the rest of them.
Everyone read the comic strip every day, and almost everyone could tell you what Mutt and Jeff, Beetle Bailey, Snuffy Smith, and Dick Tracy was doing the day before. Sitting in the shade was a favorite pastime and no one ate Cantaloupe but everyone had Mush Mellon. You went down to the cellar to bring up a can of green beans you mother had canned last summer and out to the smokehouse to cut off a slice of middlin for breakfast. No one had bathrooms but everyone had a toilet and people burned their trash in the burn barrel in back of the house or threw it on the trash pile at the end of some country road.
Cokes were 6 cents and came out of a red and white box with water and ice inside and giant Baby Ruth Bars were a dime. If you picked up bottles from Co colas, you could get a penny for them from the store. Milk came in glass bottles, and freezers on the ice box were roughly the size of two shoe boxes, which was ok because not many frozen items were available at the store. People we knew didn’t eat in restaurants except when there was no other choice and they were called Cafes – unless of course it was an automat.
My mama and daddy were masters at finding lessons in everything in life and helping you understand why some things were a bad idea without ever forbidding you to take part in them, and understanding why others were wholesome and good, without ordering you to take them up. They taught in parables, I think it was not expressly to be like Jesus, I think it just happened. Perhaps that is why I have chosen this format for the book; it is Christ like by virtue of personal leaning rather than by intention.
Yep, lots of things have changed, since that land long ago and far away, but a few things remain the same. God still loves us and expects us to show our love for Him by the way we treat other people. We still have but one life to live, and only one shot at getting it right and living to the praise of his glory. (Eph. 1) While the world around evolves, almost daily, He remains a constant rock in a raging sea. I sincerely hope you enjoy these parables from daily life.
Bob
This Evolving World We Live In-----
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, things were very different than they are in this land in which you and I live, even if perchance your address has remained static. No one I knew could even pronounce Vietnam, nor did they know or care where it was, or who was in charge of it. Harry, Ike, and Jack were our presidents in these times and, unlike the land we now live in, we all wanted to believe that they were true, capable and cared about each of us.
We watched June Clever on TV and did not even question why she wore pearls around her neck, high heels on her feet, and an apron around her waist when Ward came home for dinner – we wanted to believe that world and wanted to be part of it. We watched Uncle Milty perform on the Texaco Hour, dressed in drag every week and did not question his sexual orientation; in fact we would have likely not known what that meant. Watching Red Skelton turn his hat upside down and be a little boy, or get dragged under the curtain every Sunday night never ceased to be funny. Some moms worked outside the home but most stayed home and took care of the kids.
We took our cars to filling stations with big porches for us to drive under and the man who ran it came out in a uniform and filled the tank, checked the oil and water, put air in the tires, and tore off some green stamps which you mother could trade for toasters, and electric skillets. Lots of mothers could not drive and no self respecting man would ride in a car with a woman driving – it was un-manly. A good sized house was 2000 square feet and often less, and a farm could be bought for 7 thousand dollars.
Rock and Roll was just hitting the radio, but Your Hit Parade was what everyone was watching on TV. No one thought Rock and Roll was here to stay, except the teenagers – Frank, Perry, Rosemary, and Dean were where it was at on the music scene, and the other was just a passing fad.
Words were used differently and a hoe was what you used to chop the garden, if you were gay you were only lively and happy, no one thought regular people would ever become dope eaters. Alternate lifestyles, live-ins, and Johnny has Two Mommies were meaningless phrases and most of us were without a clue concerning those things and wished to stay that way. People could be pro-choice and pro-life both then, they were not mutually exclusive term.
When I was growing up in Carthage we went to Prayer Meeting on Wednesday night. Bread came in two distinct groups, that which you made at home which included Corn Pone and Hoe Cakes or Biscuits and yeast rolls or you could eat Loaf bread from the store. We had Arsh (Irish)_ potatoes and sweet potatoes with dried beans – never white beans or great northerns. Adie made teacakes (cookies) every Saturday and we kept the milk cold in the frigidare. When we went to the store we had thing put in a poke, never a bag like now or a sack like up north. Old men wore shoes through the week, but slippers on Sunday. Everyone went to the grocery store to get food, and no one went to a Supermarket. On Halloween we had a punkin and pumpkin seemed pretentious. We got dog tired and my grandmother said you were bilious when your stomach hurt. The few cars that had turn signals we said to have blinkers and I suspect my grandchildren will never know what fender skirts were. Our fathers took a turn of corn to mill and our grandmothers kept flour in the flour barrel. When we were sick we went to the drug store and bought patent medicine.
In those days no one had ever heard of NASA, and the moon just might still be made of green cheese. Cars and homes didn’t have air conditioning and businesses that did advertized “Come inside it’s Cool” Pantyhose was not know as a single word, and women going into public barelegged was as unthinkable as a preacher wearing a Speedo in the pulpit. Church houses in the country did not have pews, they had benches, and a Sanctuary was a place birds were kept. No one had ministers, or pastors, but everyone had preachers and that was their main job description. Businesses had calculators and comptometers and Dell was a valley, Gateway was something you walked through, and Apple was something you ate. People dressed up to go to church and wore ties to go shopping downtown. Women wore white gloves on their hands and girdles on the rest of them.
Everyone read the comic strip every day, and almost everyone could tell you what Mutt and Jeff, Beetle Bailey, Snuffy Smith, and Dick Tracy was doing the day before. Sitting in the shade was a favorite pastime and no one ate Cantaloupe but everyone had Mush Mellon. You went down to the cellar to bring up a can of green beans you mother had canned last summer and out to the smokehouse to cut off a slice of middlin for breakfast. No one had bathrooms but everyone had a toilet and people burned their trash in the burn barrel in back of the house or threw it on the trash pile at the end of some country road.
Cokes were 6 cents and came out of a red and white box with water and ice inside and giant Baby Ruth Bars were a dime. If you picked up bottles from Co colas, you could get a penny for them from the store. Milk came in glass bottles, and freezers on the ice box were roughly the size of two shoe boxes, which was ok because not many frozen items were available at the store. People we knew didn’t eat in restaurants except when there was no other choice and they were called Cafes – unless of course it was an automat.
My mama and daddy were masters at finding lessons in everything in life and helping you understand why some things were a bad idea without ever forbidding you to take part in them, and understanding why others were wholesome and good, without ordering you to take them up. They taught in parables, I think it was not expressly to be like Jesus, I think it just happened. Perhaps that is why I have chosen this format for the book; it is Christ like by virtue of personal leaning rather than by intention.
Yep, lots of things have changed, since that land long ago and far away, but a few things remain the same. God still loves us and expects us to show our love for Him by the way we treat other people. We still have but one life to live, and only one shot at getting it right and living to the praise of his glory. (Eph. 1) While the world around evolves, almost daily, He remains a constant rock in a raging sea. I sincerely hope you enjoy these parables from daily life.
Bob
Monday, June 28, 2010
Seaking Northern as a Second Language
Northern as a Second Language---------------------------------------------------
I speak Northern as a second language; I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I was trying to make a living with General Motors and that required me to spend 35 years in the frozen north. Of course Southern is my native tongue, being born in Jackson County and raised in Smith County, and it comes to me as easy as a lie to a politician. But I read Jack McCall’s piece in the Carthage Courier about “Paying Attention,” and it reminded me to pay attention to the difference in the way we talk Down South and the way things are said up north.
Of course, it is more than just what you say, it is the way you say it and when it is said. For instance, those folks up north like to jump right into business and skip all of the “small talk,” as they call it. I was a face-to-face negotiator for a good part of my career with General Motors, and it would just drive the other side crazy when I wanted to ask about their daughters upcoming wedding, inquire after their granny, whom I had learned was in a nursing home, or tell a little story I had heard that might or might not relate to anything we were going to discuss when the negotiations had begun in earnest. After all, they had often flown in from New Jersey or Plano, TX or Palo Alto, California on the morning flight, or better yet the corporate jet, and felt they needed to get down to business in the first three minutes. Not me, I had learned in the South that it is hard to be nasty to someone who had just inquired about your little boys tonsillectomy, and opined that, “well, kids get through these things, but I sure hope the little fellow will feel better tomorrow. You be sure and let me know.” That kind of conversation is hard to follow-up with red faced yelling and cuss words.
My cousin Marva and I were talking about how much difficulty the folks around Franklin, Spring Hill, and Columbia had adjusting to the brusque manner of the northerners who moved down to work at the Tennessee Saturn facility. Those folks wanted to get right down to business while the southern folks were still wanting to find out how they slept last night, and whether they thought the weather would change or not. It was something of a culture clash for the first few years.
The Northern language is dry, as dry as a bone in the desert, while Down South we try to spice it up with a simile whenever possible. I personally was known for the use of barnyard animals in speech.
“Negotiating with you folks, is like trying to teach a pig to whistle – it don’t accomplish a thing, and it just irritates the pig.”
“Negotiating with this company is like wresting with a pig – you both get nasty, but the pig likes it.”
“What is this, some kind of Goat Rodeo?”
“I’m going to work this bunch like a rented mule.”
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him take a bath.”
I once was in negotiations with a company in Short Hills, NJ and a great deal of the work was done by conference phone. The leader of the opposing team later told me that they kept a whiteboard in the room for the sole purpose of noting the barnyard animal similes and analogies I used each day.
A Jewish lawyer from Washington D.C. who sometimes supported my side of negotiations, called me a few years after I had retired and told me he had tried to memorize a lot of my saying and use them himself. “It was going pretty good too,” he said, “until I came to the term Goat Rodeo. I lost them there and someone wanted an explanation and I had nothing.” It is one of those sayings that is best delivered with a Southern accent, I guess.
Well, those fellows from New York and New Jersey are pretty slick, “as slick as a puppy’s navel,” my daddy would say, so I figured that it was just fair play to put them a little off guard with a little Southern speak. One of my friends told me when I retired that when I ever started out a sentence with, “Now I’m just a farm boy from Middle Tennessee….;” that everyone in the room automatically put their hand on their wallet. (By the way – that’s Northern for billfold.) Speaking of which, takes me to the next segment of Northern as a second language.
Down South, we go to the grocery store, nearly have a wreck, push the buggy through the store we trade at, have the groceries put in a bag (or poke) and the boy wheels them out to the car for us.
Up North, they drive to the supermarket, narrowly avoiding an accident, push the shopping cart through the store where they shop, have the groceries put in a sack and wheel them out to their vehicle themselves.
We say you all (pronounced Y’all) – they say “you guys.”
We say “ya hear” – they say “huh, or eh.”
We say creek – they say crick, we say aunt (like the bug) – they say aunt (rhymes with want); we say caught (kawt) – they say caught (cot); we have yard sales (focus on where the sale is) – they have rummage sales (focus on what is being sold); we catch crawfish – they eat crayfish.
We drink coke or co cola (no matter that it is orange or grape) – and they drink pop (unless you are from down east and then it is soda) And not one of my Northern friends would even know what a Yoo-hoo is
We travel on interstates – and up north one drives on the freeway. The night before Halloween is Devil’s Night up north and down South it is “the night before Halloween.” By the way, we carve punkins into Jack-o-lanterns and wear false faces; but they use pumpkins that look just like a punkin and wear masks.
Up north if someone were to say “bless her heart” it would mean they are thinking kind thoughts about her, down South it means what the person who says that is thinking is too awful to repeat in polite company. Some Southern words do not translate directly into Northern lingo. For instance, cattywampus, skygogling, whamperjawed, thingamadiger, doohickey, whatchamacallit; and other like, perfectly good but made up words. Other words, like booger means one thing down South but that same thing is called boogie up North. Boogie Man or Booger Man, you decide.
Down South people have conniptions, and pitch hissy fits, while up north they only “have a hemorrhage” when things go wrong. Up North, all of us are considered “crackers,” “briars,” or “hillbillies”, down South we know that a cracker is from “Jawja,” a briar is what blackberry cobbler comes from, and the hillbillies are on TV.
Down south we also like to run words together into a single syllable or to break words into as many syllables as possible. Like “Momenems”. Used in a sentence it would be “After this thing is over we’er going over to Momenems to get something to eat.” Or words which take on their own meaning like “Laisleb” which is a short form of “Well I will be”; or adding syllable as in Mis-ris, for Mrs or Jewl-er-ry for jewelry.
In the Movie “I Remember Mama” Uncle Kris tells his sick and suffering young nephew that he needs a swear word to use when the pain comes but that he must not use one in English, since people will be offended, rather he teaches the boy a swear word in Swedish – whether actually a swear word or not the audience is left to wonder. Southerners are particularly adept at using “light” swear words, For instance, my mother-in-law’s swear word was “well foot.” When she was disappointed, up-set, or surprised, she said, “well foot.” Dang, dog gone, dern it, Goodness Gracious, Gracious Me, well I’ll be _____, dag nab it, this blamed thing, are all euphoniums used by Southerners for swear words – Northerners are generally more direct.
While I noticed a sizeable erosion in the Southern tongue during my 35 years in the North, primarily I suppose, as a result of the man on the six o’clock news, there is still a big difference. As I often told my friends at work, “Yawl talk at 45 and I listen at 33 1/3 – but now no one under 35 would even understand that term anymore. I only know that when I got south of the Ohio River my tongue relaxed.
I never made a conscious effort to lose my Southern accent, since in a company as large as GM being remembered, even for your accent, was a good thing. I remember once being sent to a large meeting at the GM Technical Center in Warren, MI where 22,000 people worked. I was to make a presentation to a group of executives. When I arrived back at the plant, my boss called me in the office chuckling. “Well,” he said, “you made an impression, the Assistant Comptroller called to complement “that guy” who made the presentation. When I asked him, what guy, he replied, “the one who talks like Catfish Hunter.”
I suppose it doesn’t matter whether our speech is Northern or Southern but I do wish it was a little more sprinkled with civility. That we were more careful about the use of our Creators name in vain, that we were a little more polite and kind to one another, that we were less quick to be blunt and hurtful in our comments.
The Apostle Paul admonished us to speak the truth in love, but my granny just said, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.” Let’s look for those “apples of gold in pitchers of silver.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
I speak Northern as a second language; I didn’t mean to, it just happened. I was trying to make a living with General Motors and that required me to spend 35 years in the frozen north. Of course Southern is my native tongue, being born in Jackson County and raised in Smith County, and it comes to me as easy as a lie to a politician. But I read Jack McCall’s piece in the Carthage Courier about “Paying Attention,” and it reminded me to pay attention to the difference in the way we talk Down South and the way things are said up north.
Of course, it is more than just what you say, it is the way you say it and when it is said. For instance, those folks up north like to jump right into business and skip all of the “small talk,” as they call it. I was a face-to-face negotiator for a good part of my career with General Motors, and it would just drive the other side crazy when I wanted to ask about their daughters upcoming wedding, inquire after their granny, whom I had learned was in a nursing home, or tell a little story I had heard that might or might not relate to anything we were going to discuss when the negotiations had begun in earnest. After all, they had often flown in from New Jersey or Plano, TX or Palo Alto, California on the morning flight, or better yet the corporate jet, and felt they needed to get down to business in the first three minutes. Not me, I had learned in the South that it is hard to be nasty to someone who had just inquired about your little boys tonsillectomy, and opined that, “well, kids get through these things, but I sure hope the little fellow will feel better tomorrow. You be sure and let me know.” That kind of conversation is hard to follow-up with red faced yelling and cuss words.
My cousin Marva and I were talking about how much difficulty the folks around Franklin, Spring Hill, and Columbia had adjusting to the brusque manner of the northerners who moved down to work at the Tennessee Saturn facility. Those folks wanted to get right down to business while the southern folks were still wanting to find out how they slept last night, and whether they thought the weather would change or not. It was something of a culture clash for the first few years.
The Northern language is dry, as dry as a bone in the desert, while Down South we try to spice it up with a simile whenever possible. I personally was known for the use of barnyard animals in speech.
“Negotiating with you folks, is like trying to teach a pig to whistle – it don’t accomplish a thing, and it just irritates the pig.”
“Negotiating with this company is like wresting with a pig – you both get nasty, but the pig likes it.”
“What is this, some kind of Goat Rodeo?”
“I’m going to work this bunch like a rented mule.”
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him take a bath.”
I once was in negotiations with a company in Short Hills, NJ and a great deal of the work was done by conference phone. The leader of the opposing team later told me that they kept a whiteboard in the room for the sole purpose of noting the barnyard animal similes and analogies I used each day.
A Jewish lawyer from Washington D.C. who sometimes supported my side of negotiations, called me a few years after I had retired and told me he had tried to memorize a lot of my saying and use them himself. “It was going pretty good too,” he said, “until I came to the term Goat Rodeo. I lost them there and someone wanted an explanation and I had nothing.” It is one of those sayings that is best delivered with a Southern accent, I guess.
Well, those fellows from New York and New Jersey are pretty slick, “as slick as a puppy’s navel,” my daddy would say, so I figured that it was just fair play to put them a little off guard with a little Southern speak. One of my friends told me when I retired that when I ever started out a sentence with, “Now I’m just a farm boy from Middle Tennessee….;” that everyone in the room automatically put their hand on their wallet. (By the way – that’s Northern for billfold.) Speaking of which, takes me to the next segment of Northern as a second language.
Down South, we go to the grocery store, nearly have a wreck, push the buggy through the store we trade at, have the groceries put in a bag (or poke) and the boy wheels them out to the car for us.
Up North, they drive to the supermarket, narrowly avoiding an accident, push the shopping cart through the store where they shop, have the groceries put in a sack and wheel them out to their vehicle themselves.
We say you all (pronounced Y’all) – they say “you guys.”
We say “ya hear” – they say “huh, or eh.”
We say creek – they say crick, we say aunt (like the bug) – they say aunt (rhymes with want); we say caught (kawt) – they say caught (cot); we have yard sales (focus on where the sale is) – they have rummage sales (focus on what is being sold); we catch crawfish – they eat crayfish.
We drink coke or co cola (no matter that it is orange or grape) – and they drink pop (unless you are from down east and then it is soda) And not one of my Northern friends would even know what a Yoo-hoo is
We travel on interstates – and up north one drives on the freeway. The night before Halloween is Devil’s Night up north and down South it is “the night before Halloween.” By the way, we carve punkins into Jack-o-lanterns and wear false faces; but they use pumpkins that look just like a punkin and wear masks.
Up north if someone were to say “bless her heart” it would mean they are thinking kind thoughts about her, down South it means what the person who says that is thinking is too awful to repeat in polite company. Some Southern words do not translate directly into Northern lingo. For instance, cattywampus, skygogling, whamperjawed, thingamadiger, doohickey, whatchamacallit; and other like, perfectly good but made up words. Other words, like booger means one thing down South but that same thing is called boogie up North. Boogie Man or Booger Man, you decide.
Down South people have conniptions, and pitch hissy fits, while up north they only “have a hemorrhage” when things go wrong. Up North, all of us are considered “crackers,” “briars,” or “hillbillies”, down South we know that a cracker is from “Jawja,” a briar is what blackberry cobbler comes from, and the hillbillies are on TV.
Down south we also like to run words together into a single syllable or to break words into as many syllables as possible. Like “Momenems”. Used in a sentence it would be “After this thing is over we’er going over to Momenems to get something to eat.” Or words which take on their own meaning like “Laisleb” which is a short form of “Well I will be”; or adding syllable as in Mis-ris, for Mrs or Jewl-er-ry for jewelry.
In the Movie “I Remember Mama” Uncle Kris tells his sick and suffering young nephew that he needs a swear word to use when the pain comes but that he must not use one in English, since people will be offended, rather he teaches the boy a swear word in Swedish – whether actually a swear word or not the audience is left to wonder. Southerners are particularly adept at using “light” swear words, For instance, my mother-in-law’s swear word was “well foot.” When she was disappointed, up-set, or surprised, she said, “well foot.” Dang, dog gone, dern it, Goodness Gracious, Gracious Me, well I’ll be _____, dag nab it, this blamed thing, are all euphoniums used by Southerners for swear words – Northerners are generally more direct.
While I noticed a sizeable erosion in the Southern tongue during my 35 years in the North, primarily I suppose, as a result of the man on the six o’clock news, there is still a big difference. As I often told my friends at work, “Yawl talk at 45 and I listen at 33 1/3 – but now no one under 35 would even understand that term anymore. I only know that when I got south of the Ohio River my tongue relaxed.
I never made a conscious effort to lose my Southern accent, since in a company as large as GM being remembered, even for your accent, was a good thing. I remember once being sent to a large meeting at the GM Technical Center in Warren, MI where 22,000 people worked. I was to make a presentation to a group of executives. When I arrived back at the plant, my boss called me in the office chuckling. “Well,” he said, “you made an impression, the Assistant Comptroller called to complement “that guy” who made the presentation. When I asked him, what guy, he replied, “the one who talks like Catfish Hunter.”
I suppose it doesn’t matter whether our speech is Northern or Southern but I do wish it was a little more sprinkled with civility. That we were more careful about the use of our Creators name in vain, that we were a little more polite and kind to one another, that we were less quick to be blunt and hurtful in our comments.
The Apostle Paul admonished us to speak the truth in love, but my granny just said, “If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.” Let’s look for those “apples of gold in pitchers of silver.”
Have a blessed day, Bob
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Signs and Wonders
Signs and Wonders.------------------------------------------------
I passed the Rome church of Christ today and noticed the sign said, “Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.” I thought the sign was pretty appropriate as a punctuation mark to the conversation the brown eyed girl and I had been having for the previous couple of miles. She had noted that in nearly every yard, there was a motorcycle, a bass boat with a huge motor on the back, or a Skidoo of some description or another.
A couple of days ago a young fellow had passed us on I 40 as if we were sitting still. We were going near 70 mph so he must have been exceeding 85 or 90. The scary part was that he was on a motorcycle, It was one of those Japanese racing models that sounds as if a couple of brigades of soldiers were in a chainsaw fight. One loose pebble on the road and that young man would have been standing face to face with Saint Peter, or at lease face to face with someone.
I assume that part if it is that I am getting older. but there seems to be an obsession with speed and danger these days. Everyone wants the fastest boat, the highest roller coaster, the steepest rock climb, the most powerful motorcycle, the most dangerous bungee jump (which is just about any bungee jump, in my opinion). They want to live on the edge, experience danger close=up, get the newest adrenaline high.
It has always been my theory that man is put onto this earth with a big God shaped hole in him, and until he fills himself with God, he feels empty and incomplete. So you can dance as fast as you can, drink as much as you can, live on the edge with motorcycles, skidoos, bungee jumps, and roller coasters, but until the God shaped hole is filled, one still feels empty and incomplete. You can buy the most expensive homes and cars, take the most exotic vacations, wear $400.00 designer jeans and snake skin boots, but none of these will fill the hole. Only the God of the Universe fits in this hole and nothing else will plug the leak that leaves one feeling empty and alone.
Now a lot of times when I read those church marquees it is truly a matter of Signs and Wonders. I Wonder why they think that Sign is cleaver. But the sign at Rome today, well, it just hit the sweet spot.
“Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.”
Have a blessed day and visit us at the Maple Hill church of Christ. Bob
I passed the Rome church of Christ today and noticed the sign said, “Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.” I thought the sign was pretty appropriate as a punctuation mark to the conversation the brown eyed girl and I had been having for the previous couple of miles. She had noted that in nearly every yard, there was a motorcycle, a bass boat with a huge motor on the back, or a Skidoo of some description or another.
A couple of days ago a young fellow had passed us on I 40 as if we were sitting still. We were going near 70 mph so he must have been exceeding 85 or 90. The scary part was that he was on a motorcycle, It was one of those Japanese racing models that sounds as if a couple of brigades of soldiers were in a chainsaw fight. One loose pebble on the road and that young man would have been standing face to face with Saint Peter, or at lease face to face with someone.
I assume that part if it is that I am getting older. but there seems to be an obsession with speed and danger these days. Everyone wants the fastest boat, the highest roller coaster, the steepest rock climb, the most powerful motorcycle, the most dangerous bungee jump (which is just about any bungee jump, in my opinion). They want to live on the edge, experience danger close=up, get the newest adrenaline high.
It has always been my theory that man is put onto this earth with a big God shaped hole in him, and until he fills himself with God, he feels empty and incomplete. So you can dance as fast as you can, drink as much as you can, live on the edge with motorcycles, skidoos, bungee jumps, and roller coasters, but until the God shaped hole is filled, one still feels empty and incomplete. You can buy the most expensive homes and cars, take the most exotic vacations, wear $400.00 designer jeans and snake skin boots, but none of these will fill the hole. Only the God of the Universe fits in this hole and nothing else will plug the leak that leaves one feeling empty and alone.
Now a lot of times when I read those church marquees it is truly a matter of Signs and Wonders. I Wonder why they think that Sign is cleaver. But the sign at Rome today, well, it just hit the sweet spot.
“Be sure you don’t mistake Pleasure for Happiness.”
Have a blessed day and visit us at the Maple Hill church of Christ. Bob
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Little things really do mean a lot.
Ground hogs and Grits--------------------------------
There are some things in the world which I feel are highly underrated; things that should be held in high esteem but through ignorance and apathy are misunderstood and ignored.
One example is the ground hog, also known as the wood chuck or the whistle pig, depending on where in the United States you are calling one. The ground hog is, after all, the only animal that has a day named after him on your calendar. As highly regarded as the dog and cat are there is no dog day or cat day on you calendar. Oh, we refer to the “dog days of summer” but that is simply an expression, and holds no sway on the official calendar. But check February 2nd and there it is; the whistle pig’s very own day.
It’s not surprising when you think about all the things the little fellow can do. He makes a pretty good dish, baked up with sweet potatoes on each side of him, and that ground hog hide makes the best shoe laces you ever tied in your life. He is a weather forecaster, a hole digger, and is as clean as a whistle, why he eats only the best grass and corn from your patch. He even has a song about him;
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Ground hog grease all over her chin.
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Oh my, ain’t a Ground Hog stout.
Grits, well there is just no end to the usefulness of that commodity and most Yankees I met up north didn’t have a clue what they were all about.
The fact is though, that grits are the most useful in the North, not the South at all. It was a real good thing to carry a big sack in the back of your car. Not only did they add weight to the back end (of the car) to keep you from sliding around on all that snow and Ice, if you really got stuck, you could open that sack, sprinkle some on the ground in front of your tire and they acted just like sand, giving you enough traction to get out of that hole. Grits also make a great cleanser for your hands when the Lava Soap is all gone. If you had oil and grease on you hands from working on the tractor, Mama would just pour some grits in your hands, all lathered up with regular soap, and those hands would soon be pink and shiny.
Not only did the Yankees not have any clue about the many uses of grits they had no idea how to eat them. They thought they were cream of wheat or something. They would sprinkle sugar on them, pour milk over them, and then complain because they didn’t taste good. Well, I guess not, everybody knows grits are eaten hot, with a ¼ inch pat of butter in the middle and a little salt and pepper on the top. It doesn’t hurt if there is a little red eye gravy to drizzle on top either.
Ground hogs and grits are just a couple of those little things of which people overlook the value; and that is the real point of this story. (You knew there would be one, didn’t you?) It is the everyday things that we come to take for granted that make our life the color, taste, and flavor that it is. It is these small things, like rainbows from angry skies, butterflies that light on, and light up, our flowers, and red birds that sit in our Crape Myrtle and look smack in the bay window at us, for which we ought to remember to give God thanks. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to mention groundhogs and grits now and then either.
Have a blessed day, Bob
There are some things in the world which I feel are highly underrated; things that should be held in high esteem but through ignorance and apathy are misunderstood and ignored.
One example is the ground hog, also known as the wood chuck or the whistle pig, depending on where in the United States you are calling one. The ground hog is, after all, the only animal that has a day named after him on your calendar. As highly regarded as the dog and cat are there is no dog day or cat day on you calendar. Oh, we refer to the “dog days of summer” but that is simply an expression, and holds no sway on the official calendar. But check February 2nd and there it is; the whistle pig’s very own day.
It’s not surprising when you think about all the things the little fellow can do. He makes a pretty good dish, baked up with sweet potatoes on each side of him, and that ground hog hide makes the best shoe laces you ever tied in your life. He is a weather forecaster, a hole digger, and is as clean as a whistle, why he eats only the best grass and corn from your patch. He even has a song about him;
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Yonder comes Sal with a snigger and a grin
Ground hog grease all over her chin.
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Bring a long pole and twist him out
Oh my, ain’t a Ground Hog stout.
Grits, well there is just no end to the usefulness of that commodity and most Yankees I met up north didn’t have a clue what they were all about.
The fact is though, that grits are the most useful in the North, not the South at all. It was a real good thing to carry a big sack in the back of your car. Not only did they add weight to the back end (of the car) to keep you from sliding around on all that snow and Ice, if you really got stuck, you could open that sack, sprinkle some on the ground in front of your tire and they acted just like sand, giving you enough traction to get out of that hole. Grits also make a great cleanser for your hands when the Lava Soap is all gone. If you had oil and grease on you hands from working on the tractor, Mama would just pour some grits in your hands, all lathered up with regular soap, and those hands would soon be pink and shiny.
Not only did the Yankees not have any clue about the many uses of grits they had no idea how to eat them. They thought they were cream of wheat or something. They would sprinkle sugar on them, pour milk over them, and then complain because they didn’t taste good. Well, I guess not, everybody knows grits are eaten hot, with a ¼ inch pat of butter in the middle and a little salt and pepper on the top. It doesn’t hurt if there is a little red eye gravy to drizzle on top either.
Ground hogs and grits are just a couple of those little things of which people overlook the value; and that is the real point of this story. (You knew there would be one, didn’t you?) It is the everyday things that we come to take for granted that make our life the color, taste, and flavor that it is. It is these small things, like rainbows from angry skies, butterflies that light on, and light up, our flowers, and red birds that sit in our Crape Myrtle and look smack in the bay window at us, for which we ought to remember to give God thanks. Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to mention groundhogs and grits now and then either.
Have a blessed day, Bob
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