Monday, November 28, 2011

Grannies in a blanket

A few weeks ago, the leader of our church’s senior adult group, “Senior Friends” asked me about helping with a hayride for the group. He said, “My wife told me to ask for your help because if you helped, it would be fun; if I planned it by myself, it would be boring.”

I suspect that she may have suggested that he ask for my help, but I really doubt that she said anything about him planning a boring trip without me. He is a retiree who rides a motorcycle, for heaven’s sake. How could he be boring?

In any case, I gave him my thoughts and told him that I hoped they had a good time; I wouldn’t be there for it though.

The weekend before the hayride, he again asked me a few questions. I answered as best I could, but again wished him well and told him that I couldn’t (wouldn’t) be there.

A couple of days before the event, my wife casually mentioned that she had signed us up to bring soup to the “after the hayride” festivities. You could have heard a hay bale drop…… “Honey, didn’t I mention that I couldn’t be there?”

Well, as you can imagine, the night of the event was a beautiful, full moon-lit night, with temperatures hovering around a crisp 32° F. That’s cold enough that those who were actually crazy enough to get on the trailer wouldn’t admit to having been there.

They had borrowed a nice trailer from “Gully Branch” that was actually built for that purpose. It had a nice John Deere paint scheme and plenty of bench seating. It was even equipped with a slide out, walker-wide ramp so that the infirm (both of mind and body) could get on and off.

The way I heard it, the ride started with a bang. The driver pulled out with a trailer full of seniors, wrapped up in light jackets and a smattering of gloves, hats and blankets.

Living in the Deep South, I am not all that familiar with, nor have I ever had the need to understand, a wind chill chart. As best I can tell, with an ambient temperature of 32°F and a truck pulling a trailer at 35 MPH, frostbite is not a serious threat, but you would have a hard time convincing about 30 of my senior friends that it was not possible.

“Hey, Hey, Hey, Are you late for some appointment somewhere?” they shouted.
When the driver finally stopped, he asked, “Are you cold back there? I was only going 30-35!”

“We could fly a kite back here, if the wind-chill didn’t freeze and break the string!”

A whole nest of Grannies were all wrapped up in one blanket, shaking their heads.

After that, he held the speed down to 18-20, so the wind chill was only about 20°F. This made the next 100 yards, or so, NOT TOO BAD.

One couple was completely under their own blanket by the time they got to the next stop sign.

“What are you doing under that blanket, David?”

“Leave me alone, I’m smooching with my wife.”

“David, are you sure that that is Jan under there with you?”

“It’s too cold to come out and check, right now.”

By the time they got to the next stop sign, riders were saying, “Great, we can turn around here, and maybe we won’t all have pneumonia.”

It didn’t happen.

By this time, several folks were beginning to express concern that the driver and his wife were really missing all the fun that was happening on the trailer. At least 10 men volunteered to drive so that the driver and his wife could ride in the back where the “fun” was.

“This whole trip was their idea and they are missing all the fun.”
Really, this was a trailer full of caring, selfless people. (If I had been there, I might have cried.)

When a car pulled up behind the trailer, someone said, “Don’t look right at them. They might recognize us. We don’t want them to think that our church if full of idiots that would be out on a hayride on a night like tonight.”

Indeed.

They made it a full six miles before the threat of violence appeared, “turn around, get us back to the church and get us hot chocolate and no one gets hurt…”
Even though they were headed back, several were still not convinced that the driver was not lost. “Is he still looking for a place to turn around?”

“These are my best gloves and I still can’t feel my fingers.”

“Don’t touch my ears, they might fall off.”

And my personal favorite, “I can’t tell, is my nose running?”

This was an over 50 crowd, a group that, as a whole, is technology averse. I suspect that they will all have a better understanding of weather forecasting and wind chill before they get on a “Gully Branch” trailer at night again. The way I heard it, there were more than 30 “Senior Friends” out that night, but none would admit to actually being on that hay ride. I know that if I had been there, I probably wouldn’t admit it either.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Thanksgiving wishes

From Veteran’s Day until sometime in January when sheets and towels go on sale, life is really a blur at the Davis house. Probably yours too! Between dealing with leaves on the ground, decorating, shopping for gifts for your friends and loved ones, practicing for Christmas plays, Thanksgiving, office luncheons, church dinners and parties, and POSSIBLY watching just part of a football game or two, there doesn’t seem to be enough time to stop and smell the pumpkin pie.

In the middle of this blur, I think that it is important for us to stop and take a few minutes to think about what and who is important to us. Even more important, take the time to tell those special people that they important to you and how you appreciate them. Sending flowers after they’re gone will not be enough, trust me. It is much better to tell them while you are both living.

A friend once told me about a long-time friend of hers who had lost her husband. She took it very hard. It was almost a year before the two friends were able to talk about the loss. My friend asked, “What was the hardest part of losing your husband unexpectedly?”

She replied, “What I regret the most is the fact that the last time I saw him was when he left for work that morning he died, I was in such a hurry that I did not tell him I loved him. We always said ‘I love you’ each morning before he left. But that morning we were just too busy. I would give anything to be able to tell him that I love him, just one more time.”

Well, chances are that you will be around the very people that mean the most to you in the next few days. My challenge to you is to take just a few minutes to chat with each one and tell them how they are special to you. And if you love them, tell them! If they are not where you are, PICK UP THE PHONE!

Life expectancy is the longest it has ever been. But life is still too short to not take the time to smell the pumpkin pie, and laugh with family, and let them know what they mean to you. Besides, it’s Thanksgiving.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

God told me to ask you…..

Yesterday we had our office Thanksgiving luncheon. The company furnishes the meat and drinks and the employees bring covered dishes. We have a couple of great folks that always volunteer to coordinate everything and pull it all together. They do a great job and it is always a hit.

The Thanksgiving menu discussion is always fun, especially if you have folks from different parts of the country. Do we have stuffing or dressing? (One participant insists that it is all dressing unless you dig it out of a turkey carcass.) Is it cornbread or bread in the dressing/stuffing; sweet potato or pumpkin pie? PEE-can or pe-CON pie? Is the turkey roasted, smoked or fried? (We actually had all three.)

When they finally settled on the menu and sent it out so we could volunteer for dishes, I decided to wait and see what was left on the list that no one wanted to bring. This is sometimes dangerous, at least for me. I could have ended up with a complicated dish and I would be stuck. Luckily, I was assigned to bring Cool Whip. I kinda felt like I had wimped out because there is not much effort or creativity in bringing cool whip, but what can you do?

On my way from home to work yesterday, I stopped by the trusty Piggly Wiggly to pick up my cool Whip. It was early, so I got a close parking place and there wasn’t even a line to check out.

As I walked out to my Jeep, a woman was getting out of her car halfway across the parking lot. She hollered across the parking lot, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Don’t you want to buy a sweet potato pie?’

“You have pies?”

“I sure do!” and she proceeded to open the back door of her car, so I got into my Jeep and drove over beside her. She pulled out a big tray of warm, homemade 4-5” sweet potato pies.

“I was just over at the convenience store on the bypass. Those men on the bench out front said I should bring the rest of these to town.”

“They look good! How much are they?”

“Just $2 apiece.”

“I’ll take two.” I told her. “And how did you know I just bought Cool Whip?”
“I didn’t. God just told me to ask you if you wanted a sweet potato pie. What’s yo name, honey?”

After exchanging pies, money, names and pleasantries, I noticed the embroidery on her apron. It said Heavenly Pies.

Indeed.

Looking back, I should have given her a container of Cool Whip. I had two.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Veterans Day 2011

In honor of Veterans Day we had several things happen in our church this past Sunday. We viewed a Veterans Day tribute video which went from Pearl Harbor through Korea, Viet Nam and September 11th right to today with our troops in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was very moving. Our pastor then recognized all the veterans in attendance. I looked around at all these men and women who have served our country. Some served in wartime and other during peaceful times. Some of them were young, others, not so much. Some served briefly, others an entire career. I was struck by the fact that these men and women that were standing are pillars of our church and our community.

Even though I have worked in and around a large military industrial complex most of my working life and feel like I have as good an understanding of the military way as an outsider can have, I am still an outsider. I believe that there is no possible way for me to truly understand the sacrifice that many veterans gave because I did not go there. I am an outsider.

There are more than 22 million veterans in America. There are over 1.5 million veteran women, probably more than any time in our history. There are 3.3 million veterans with service related disabilities. On any given night, there are over 107,000 homeless veterans in America.

We celebrate Veterans Day on November 11th each year, a tradition going all the way back to the end of WW I. It was then called Armistice Day in honor of the end of hostilities on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. In his proclamation in 1919, President Woodrow Wilson said:

"To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country's service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations."

Please take a few minutes this Veterans Day to reflect on what the men and women who have served in our military have contributed to our security and freedom. Call or go see one just to say thanks for what they have done to make America the place where people still want to come. Most of us outsiders really have no idea what our freedom cost them.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Memorial Day

We lived life at a much slower pace when I was growing up on Chicken Road in rural north Dodge County. It was easy to tell where the Bleckley County line was on Chicken Road because the pavement ended when you got to Dodge County. It was really fun when it rained because you might get where you were going and you might not. Today, when people refer to getting in the ditch, it is a metaphor for something going wrong. Back then, it referred to driving on a slick rain-soaked road and quite literally, sliding in the ditch.

We didn’t eat out often and I really looked forward to going to Macon, maybe twice or three times a year. I remember one of the stores in downtown Macon had an elevator and there was an elevator operator that was always dressed up and operated the doors and the controls. It was probably Joseph N Neel’s, but I'm not sure. We’d always go to Sears, Newberry’s, Dannenberg’s, and I remember eating at Krystal or the lunch counter at Woolworth’s.

I remember going to Macon with my mama and her good friend Edna Scarborough. I must have been six or seven years old, I guess. We were in mama’s 1954 blue and white Ford. I remember this trip particularly because there was a parade while we were there. As the parade passed us, some of the entries threw candy. Ms Edna seemed to be getting more candy that the rest of us. She said several times, “Y’all don’t need to get any; I’ll have plenty to share.” She would pick up candy and put it in her pocket and as soon as she stood up, there would be more candy at her feet. As it turned out, we all got more candy than she because she was reaching through the pocket (of her all-weather coat,) and dropping the candy on the ground. She picked up the same 10 pieces of candy over and over.

In that parade were some military units, but there were also some old men dressed up in military uniforms that didn’t fit. They didn’t look like they could defend their rocking chair very well, much less America. Some of them were on crutches and some were missing arms. I asked Mama what those old men were doing in the parade. She explained that they were there to remind us of all the men and women who had made sacrifices to keep America free. I didn’t understand.

She said, “Billy, I’m talking about people like your uncle James.”

I understood. I never saw him in person because he died seven years before I was born. He was one of the first from Dodge County to Join the Navy after Pearl Harbor was attacked. One day this 22 year old was rolling in the floor, playing with his nephew and just a few days later he was a young man rolling in the mud at boot camp. One day he was a carefree brother trying to sort out what he will do with his life and just a few days later, he was a young man with purpose to fight and destroy a common enemy.

He didn’t die in combat, but he did give his life doing what men and women have done for more than 200 years. He was wearing the uniform with honor and a solemn promise to defend the United States of America.

I understood what those old men in the parade were trying to tell me. I had held the musty smelling, moth-eaten flag with 48 stars that draped James’s coffin when they brought him home and buried him at his parents’ feet in Bower’s Cemetery. I had read the letters that he sent his sister, and I had seen his pictures, both in and out of uniform. I saw what his loss did to his baby sister, my aunt Beck. She lived another 30 years, but started dying the day he did.

Uncle James didn’t make it to his 24th birthday. He never married, had children, found his first gray hair, or got to meet me. He gave all that up because he thought that the American way of life was threatened by those men far away and he needed to do his part to protect it.

He didn’t do anything that others before or since haven’t done. I just thought that this Memorial Day, I should introduce you to him by name. He and the thousands that he represents gave their all so that we could have the freedom that we enjoy every day. They deserve so much more.

Friday, May 6, 2011

Late Nights and Books on Texas

I wrote this over ten years ago during the week of Mother’s Day. I was a sick man and wasn’t sleeping well at the time. Reading through it today, I feel the same way as I did then. I hope that you have a wonderful Mother’s Day. bd

Last night as I was reading a pretty good book as everyone else in the house slept, I got to thinking about where my reading habit really began. I am sure that it was the fault of, or credit to my first grade teacher, Ms. Peacock. Now I know that I’m getting older and my memory is not what it used to be, but I remember her as a woman in her mid to late eighties and weighing at least three hundred pounds. She wore her hair in a knot, drank grapefruit juice out of those little cans through a straw (that always had lipstick on it.) She put on that really red lipstick using the back of her granddaddy’s pocket watch as a mirror. I remember someone asking her once why she drank that stuff, was it really that good? And she said that it helped her keep her weight down. We couldn’t imagine how big she must have been before she discovered this miracle juice.

At any rate, Ms. Peacock wrote on my report card at the end of the school year that my reading skills were weak and that my mama might want to work with me on it over the summer. Although Ms. Peacock may have started it mama followed through with a vengeance. You would have thought that I had been diagnosed with a serious, if not fatal disorder the way mama attacked the “problem.”

The bookmobile came to Empire once a week, Tuesday afternoons, I think. My mother and I were there to drop off and pick up a load of books every time it came. I remember it looking like a big pink and white bread truck. Before the summer was over we were visiting other libraries too. I became an authority on the Hardy boys and the Bobbsey Twins that summer. I also caught up on Samson and those poor wandering Jews that desperately needed a map. (I already knew about Kim, Wendy and their rowdy dog Tyke.)

Our routine was to sit on the front porch swing and I would read out loud and mama would shell butterbeans, or whatever hand work was needed, and just listen. I would read a while and then I could go play a while, and then read again. When I finished the book, I would close it and mama would have me tell her the story. Sometimes she would ask me questions. I climbed my Chinaberry tree and played in the creek that summer, but I read a lot of books too!

That was forty-odd years ago. I hadn’t really thought a lot about any of it until last night, as I reading about Texas. When mama sat there beside me shelling butterbeans and helping me with the hard words, I thought that I wasn’t going anywhere that summer. I was wrong. The journey that I started that summer has taken me many places and I hope it won’t end for a while….

This Sunday after a nice lunch I’d like to sit on that front porch swing and read a pretty good book to my mama, close my eyes and tell her the story that I just read, just one more time.

And what are YOU doing this Sunday?

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Coupons

On a Saturday night a couple of years ago, my family and I went to a ball game in Macon, so I was out much later that usual. I had to get gas before coming home so I stopped by one of the fine convenience stores near downtown. I had just gotten out of my Jeep and this sad looking guy approached me before I could get the door opened to my gas tank.

“Panhandler,” I thought. “This is why I hate to be near downtown Macon at night.”

“Can you spare something so I can get something to eat? All I have is this penny that I just found.” He insisted on showing it to me.

“Let me get the gas going and I’ll check,” I said.

You know that I cannot pass one of those red kettles at Christmas, but this is different. I know that the kettle is legitimate. You just don’t know about these guys; dirty clothes, matted hair, ugly scars, smelly. Will they actually eat? Will they dull their cravings for drugs or alcohol? What do you do?

I remember the first guy like this I ever saw standing at a traffic light on an off-ramp in Atlanta. He had a sign that said something like, “will work for food.” It disturbed me deeply, but I was in the wrong lane and didn’t stop. When I got to my friend’s business, I told him about it.

He said, “Oh yeah, he’s been there over a month. I stopped and offered him a job the first morning I saw him. He declined. I stop about once a week and offer him a job or a trip to a nearby Waffle House for breakfast. He must be making pretty good money. He only works during morning rush hour as people come to work. I figure he’ll be gone when his donations drop off.”

I had no idea.

I am somewhere between a cynic and an old-fashioned softie. I don’t have a problem putting dollars into the big guitar at the Mexican restaurant for the mariachi to play “Besame Mucho” or “Rancho Grande’,” but that is different. I know that the Mariachi members are professionals that depend on tips to make a living. I don’t know if these guys are professionals or just victims of bad luck (or bad choices.)

I finally got the pump started and fumbled through my pockets to see if I had a couple of ones to give him. I could only find one. I was not about to reach for my wallet, certainly not late at night in downtown Macon, Georgia. I did find several coupons that had been handed out at the ball game: some from Chick-Fil-A and a couple for a free Big Mac. I gave him one of each and a dollar for a drink. He smiled, said thanks and almost broke out in a trot toward McDonalds.

I didn’t stand there and watch to see if he actually went in. That would probably have been rude, distrustful, or even prying. Did he turn away before he made it to the golden arches? Did he go to sleep with cheese on his breath, or something stronger? Did I do the right thing? I don’t know the answer to any of these. Would I do it again? Yes, I would, and I am now saving my coupons. I never know when I might need one or two.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Old Friends

Wanda and Layne have been friends of ours for a long time. They have had a place up on Lake Oconee for years and after both of them retired, they became full-time “Lakers.”

One morning not too long ago, Wanda made an early morning trip to Publix to beat the crowd. Right there in the produce department, she saw a woman that she recognized, but couldn’t for the life of her, remember the woman’s name. She ducked down the bread aisle while trying to remember…. Was she from Wilkinson or Laurens County from her youth? Was she from Warner Robins? She knew it was there, but the name just wouldn’t come…..

Since Wanda is not one easily defeated, she finally resolved to hit this memory problem head-on when she came face-to-face with this unnamed friend in front of the salad dressing on aisle five.

“My goodness, how long has it been,” Wanda began, as she hugged her friend and pecked her on the cheek.

The friend with no name just smiled, tentatively.

Wanda continued, “I haven’t seen you in ages. I know I haven’t seen you since my newest grandchild was born.”

She then began to show her friend the latest pictures. They spent quite some time looking at the whole album that Wanda just happened to have with her; beginning at birth, all the way up to the family cookout, just a few weeks ago.

As they closed the book, Wanda fished one last time for a hint of this friend’s connection. “Well, are you living here at the lake now?”

“Oh no, Ralph and I pulled into Lake Oconee Campground and RV Park last night. We will only be here for a few days.”

Ralph. Ralph! Ralph? Wanda thought. That is no help. She must have remarried or something. I can’t picture this woman with a Ralph.

She stalled more, “well you and Ralph must drop by to see Layne and me while you are here.”

The friend nodded.

Finally Wanda confessed, “Your face hasn’t changed a bit. I’d recognize you anywhere. I know that I should know it like my own, but for the life of me, I can’t remember your name or where our lives crossed.”

The friend thought for a bit, smiled and asked, “Don’t you drive a green Ford Expedition?”

Wanda confessed that she did.

The friend continued, “Well, my name is Kathryn and I am from a small town right outside Detroit. I have never spent any time in Georgia in my life. You probably recognize me because you almost ran over me in the parking lot as I was walking in here this morning.”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry! I can’t believe it. You probably don’t think much of the South now, especially Georgians. You’re probably ready to leave right now and never come back.”

“Quite the contrary,” Kathryn replied, “My husband spent some time in the South before we married. He always talked about how different life was here and I never believed him. Ralph left early this morning to try his hand at fishing so I came here to get a pound of coffee and some bagels. I have been hugged, kissed, shown baby pictures, and invited to your house, all before breakfast. How can I be mad about that?”

“Oh Kate, you haven’t had breakfast yet? I know this little place with the best breakfast. They’ve got a great breakfast casserole and baked French toast to die for. If you want a little less, they have fresh local berries, homemade muffins, cat head biscuits, cane syrup from south Georgia and blackberry jam.”

Off they went together, two newly acquainted old friends. They had a lot of catching up to do. Bless their hearts…..

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Hometown Heroes

While my wife and I were on our way out of town for a few days of rest, we drove through several small towns. I always enjoy reading the signs as we pass through. In one town we saw signs in front of two different churches declaring “Today is Hoyt Smith Day!” This little town wasn’t half the size of my hometown, maybe a couple of thousand people, so getting his name on two church signs was quite an accomplishment, I thought.

It turns out that Hoyt was celebrating his 100th birthday. He had spent most of them in that same community. He had farmed, gotten married, and raised a family there. But he had also been an asset. He had been a scout leader, active in the community and his church.

This made me think about my community and the many people that give of their time and talent to make it a better place to live.

My next door neighbor is on our city council. If I were a betting man, I’d put money on the fact that he hears a thousand complaints for every pat on the back that he gets. I’ve never heard him complain about it. In fact, when he mentions his responsibilities at all, it is usually talking about something that we could do to make our town a better place to live.

Can you think of a single pastor that gets the respect, recognition, (and pay) that they truly deserve?

There is a church near my home that has a very well kept lawn. There is always a nice mix of blooming flowers throughout the warmer months. I just know that the elderly man that maintains them is a volunteer. I say that because I don’t think that they could afford to pay him for all the time he invests. Our church had one of those men. For years, Eddie Edwards made sure that the weeds were few, and the grass was green. I don’t ever remember telling him how much I appreciated that.

I have no idea who the scout leaders and recreation ball coaches in my community are. They give of their time to help mold the leaders of tomorrow.

The children’s choir and high school band may sound great in their spring concert, but some hardworking director has had to listen to hours of pretty awful, ear-bleeding stuff to get them to that point.

The list goes on. We have heroes all around us. There are school bus drivers, teachers, policemen; just a lot of people that do jobs that I couldn’t, or wouldn’t want to do. I’m glad that they are able, and willing to do those jobs. We should say something to let them know that we appreciate what they do.

Last weekend, they presented Mr. Smith with a proclamation that talked about his being a kind and generous man, who brings joy and happiness to his many friends, neighbors, and family members. It talked about the example he has made of his life. It said that he makes this world a better place in which to live. Of course, it had all the “whereas and therefore” words that proclamations always have.

I wasn’t there, but I suspect that Mr. Hoyt wondered what all the fuss was about and kinda wished that they hadn’t gone to all that trouble. Hometown heroes are just that way. I’m glad that they did. He deserved it, I’m sure, and it made me think about the hometown heroes right here in my little part of the world.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Music to my ears

Music surrounds us practically everywhere we go. Many times it is pleasing and adds to the experience of visiting the establishment. Our taste in music does vary and that accounts for our widely different opinions on what constitutes good music.

God blessed some of us with wonderful voices. Some have rich speaking voices, others have voices for singing. A few have both. However, there are some of us that not only can’t sing, their normal speaking voice is, how should I say it, annoying? Grating? Grating!

I was reminded recently that there is more of us than just the “can’t sing” and the “cans” among us. There are the “can’t sing and know it,” the “can sing and know it” and the “can sing but deny it” group. The most painful crowd to be around is the “can’t sing but someone said they could and they believed it” folks.

There are some places that just lend themselves to bad music experiences. I would place any establishment with an “open mike” night and also serves alcohol in that category. Any talent contest that has a cash prize can count on punishing the judges mercilessly (unless they are given GONG privileges.)

If I am in a church, a concert or anywhere else there is music, you can just guess who will sit beside me and know all the verses to every song played. (Hint: it won’t be anyone that will soon be discovered and get a recording contract.)

I was at a ballgame recently and got to sit beside Ms Tin Ear herself. She had the lungs of an auctioneer, even knew the words to the bumper music that they played at every break in the action. (Had it been a dog show, there would have been a lot of responsive howling.) I seriously considered moving, but I decided that it could be worse.

“How,” you ask?

Sitting beside someone that can’t sing and they think they know all the words, but don’t, is your answer. These folks make my ears bleed.

Over the years, I have heard folks sing at some function and then say, “It sounded a whole lot better than that in the shower.” Or, just as rich, “I don’t know what happened. When I sing that song riding down the road in my car, I can hit every note…”

I just don’t believe it. I can hear myself better in the shower, but that’s not to say that it sounds good. The same goes for driving down the road with the windows up or down. I do sing in those places alright, both in the shower and on the road. But I’m certainly not going to inflict that on anyone else.

In my recent memory, I guess that Roseanne Barr trying to sing the Star-Spangled Banner in San Diego has got to top my list as the all time best example of a bad example of singing. It was much worse than Christina Aguilera newly worded rendition at the Super Bowl. For heaven’s sake, the national anthem has whipped the likes of Jose Feliciano, Marvin Gaye and Robert Goulet. It has been done so poorly by so many that it has been called the Star-Mangled Banner for good reason. What was she thinking? I wouldn’t try to sing it in the shower.

I once went to hear a Southern preacher who was visiting a church near my hometown. I’d heard him preach and looked forward to seeing and hearing him in person. I had no idea that he sang. (I use that term loosely here.) Looking back, I should have gone late. What he lacked in quality he tried to make up for in volume (both loudness and quantity.) If he had asked for requests, I’m sure someone would have said, “Yeah, why don’t you quit.”

His message was good, strong and scriptural. He also sang. I thought about writing a check for the offering and putting the following in the memo:

Love offering: $50
Listening to singing: - $40
Check amount (net) $10

I thought about it, but I didn’t do it. You never know. Maybe his Mama or Grand-mama told him he could sing.

Bless his heart, I certainly didn’t tell him that.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

The Greatest Thing.......

“The greatest thing since sliced bread” I have heard that all my life. I’ve heard it about everything from computers to, well, bread.

I remember being in a meeting once, listening to a contractor describe some wonderful product he was trying to sell. There was a group of Air Force civilians and military in the audience. The Colonel at the head of the table was obviously impressed and made reference to some feature being the “greatest thing since sliced bread.” I began to wonder just what made sliced bread such a watershed event.

You could certainly slice your own bread to make a sandwich long before it came presliced, all wrapped in a nice package and on the shelf in the grocery store. I guess sliced bread makes it a lot easier to be certain that the bread will fit in the electric toaster. However, not many folks had those either, even though electric toasters had been invented almost twenty years when sliced bread made its debut in the late 1920s. Good grief, we didn’t have electricity on Chicken Road until just before World War II and I don’t think we used much of it even then. What I am saying is that I didn’t live through the hardship of having to slice my own bread, but I can’t imagine that it would be that tough.

I do remember when we got indoor plumbing at my house. In my opinion, that was certainly the greatest thing since WAY BEFORE sliced bread. The summer before I started to school we finally got a bathroom. I don’t know what other families called their outhouse, but ours was always called Mrs. Murphy. I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t have to go see “Mrs. Murphy” in the dark and on cold mornings before the school bus came to pick me up. It was too far behind our house, covered in honeysuckle, and was a three holer (two big holes and one kiddy sized hole.) I never understood why there were three holes. Even in our family, which was close, going to see Mrs. Murphy was not a group activity.

When we were getting our indoor plumbing, I remember them digging a big hole in our yard and a long trench out into the field. The hole alone would have been cool to a six year old, even if it hadn’t made Mrs. Murphy obsolete. The long trench made it even better.

Television was a real milestone on Chicken Road, but no one ever says that ANYTHING is the “greatest thing since TV.” I remember our first color TV. Not many programs were in color, but it was a big deal nonetheless. We got great reception, (on a good day) of all the ABC, NBC, and CBS programming. Actually, it was all the great ABC, NBC and CBS programs that WMAZ, Channel 13 carried.

Now, air conditioning; there is a milestone. I remember when people went to the movies not because of the new Cary Grant movie or to the grocery store not because they needed milk. There was a sign out front that said “Cool Inside” or “Air Conditioned” that lured folks in. Some of the signs looked frosty, as if to say, “Your sweat may freeze here, be careful!”

Alan Shepard blasting into space, John Glenn orbiting the earth, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landing on the moon, those were all a big deal to me. Do you ever hear ANYONE say, “That’s the greatest thing since Alan Shepard hit a golf ball on the moon”? I didn’t think so.

When sliced bread hit the market, soon after the depression struck, people began buying their bread that was no longer cooked in their neighborhood, but in a factory, miles away. There was uniform shape, size, weight, and number of slices in a loaf. How boring! Now bakeries are popping up all around, even in the mall. You can again buy it hot, fresh, and yes, they will even slice it for you. We have come full circle, from where we were so happy to leave just a couple of generations ago. So, saying something is the “greatest thing since sliced bread” is not the compliment that it appears to be. At least that's my opinion.

Next thing you know, someone will open a restaurant where customers can cook their own food, just like we used to do at home.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

New Shoes

I have new shoes. In fact, I have two new pair of shoes. No, it is not what you think. Getting new shoes is not a religious experience for me. I just have an odd sized foot, so when I find my size at a fair price, I buy them, whether I need them or not.

Of course, having three daughters, I have been exposed to shoe zealots. At least two of them could go shopping for anything; jeans, a dress, office supplies, pizza, and they would come home with shoes. Sometimes multiple pair, often with a handbag too. I buy shoes out of necessity. They buy shoes that are “cute.” I buy shoes that fit and are not hideous. They would buy shoes that wouldn’t really fit, as long as they were cute. One of my daughters is a certified “flip-flop-aholic.”

I ordered my shoes online. They were marked down, had my size in multiple colors, so I ordered black ones and brown ones. I finally got around to trying them on this past weekend. As I was looking at them out of the box, I couldn’t help but think about a young woman I used to work with.

Daune was a very smart young woman, in the bookish way; but she lacked what my Uncle Freddie often referred to as “walking around” sense. She could do complex mathematical equations, but had problems with the more mundane tasks. She had been married enough times that we all knew not to buy her ANYTHING monogrammed. She had several children, one in daycare, others in different schools. Looking back, I am quite sure that getting that crew ready for school and herself ready to come to work was a lot like tending zoo.

One morning she came in late and seemed more frazzled than usual. I didn’t say one word. I waited until she had a couple of cups of coffee before I went to check on her. I finally asked, “Daune, have you had a hard morning?”
A little huffy, she replied, while sipping her second cup, “why no, why would you ask such a thing?”

“Well, I just happen to notice that you had on two different kinds of shoes this morning. That is just a little out of the ordinary for you.”

She pushed back from her desk, looked down at her feet and said, “Well Bill, that’s very observant of you. They’re essentially the same style. The only real difference is that one is black and the other a deep navy.”

“Well, it wasn’t the color that I noticed, it was the limp. That left shoe has at least an inch, maybe an inch and a half more heel that the right. I wouldn’t have made it in from the parking lot if I was tilted as much as you were this morning.”

All I heard was the coffee pot, and maybe a few crickets…….

Now that I think about it, I believe I will put my new shoes on the opposite ends of the closet, just in case. You just never know.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Granny Can't Dance

I wrote this in the Summer of 2006. I recently saw "Granny" and decided to share this here....

As long as I can remember, we have always had a time for prayer requests at the church where I grew up, and still attend. This is especially true when we gather in small intimate groups like men’s meetings, women’s meetings and Sunday school class. Not only do I believe that prayer changes things, I also believe that sharing one another’s burdens is good for us all.

My wife is in charge of doing the count for worship services. She counts everyone in the sanctuary during the morning worship service on Sunday mornings, and if she is not through when the kids leave for children’s church, she will go out to count them after they settle in for their morning lesson.

A few weeks ago, she went out to count children’s church Sunday morning and she arrived just in time to hear the prayer requests. As you can probably imagine, prayer request time can be rather interesting when there are three and four year olds involved. One precious little boy said, “Pray for my Granny. She can’t dance.”

The teacher asked a clarifying question to be sure she understood. She did, of course. It was a dance problem, to be sure. She assured the little boy that this was important.

No one was sure if “Granny” had some kind of injury, Luke had overheard something from Granny or his parents, or he was making some observation based on his knowledge of dance. It does not really matter. It was important to Luke that they pray for his Granny.

I am often amazed at the faith of little children, not just faith, confidence. At what age do we lose this?

When we were five, we could dance. What kind of music, you ask? It didn’t matter. Just crank it up and we would be there. Now? Sure!

How about singing? Of course, we could do that too. We would provide our own words if we needed to.

Draw? Paint? Of course.

Prayer was just as easy, and our faith was boundless. We learned: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…” The next line I learned was “If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord, my soul to take.” My wife thought that that was harsh, so our girls learned: “angels guard me through the night, and keep me safe till morning light.” (I do like that…)

We also learned, “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food; by his hand, we are fed, thank you Lord for daily bread. Amen.”

When we could pray our own prayer, it sounded more like:
“God, this is Billy. Thanks for the meatloaf and the mashed potatoes.”

“Mama, do I have to thank him for the squash?”

“Yes, Billy thank him for the squash.”

“I thank you for the squash, but not as much as for the fried okra, sliced tomatoes and blackberry cobbler.”

“Mama, that is blackberry cobbler, ain’t it.”

“Don’t say ain’t and yes it is blackberry cobbler.”

“…and the sweet tea. God, Mr. J.B. up the road said that you needed to send some rain or there ain’t gonna be no corn this year on Chicken Road ‘cause it’ll all burn up. If you let it rain, let it rain tomorrow morning so I won’t hafta pick butterbeans. ThankyaJesusamen."

If we didn’t understand something, we’d ask, no problem. In Stuart Hample’s book “Children’s letters to God”, a little person named Jane wrote, “God, in Sunday School, they told us what you do. Who does it when you are on vacation?”

On a recent weekend, I was at a church function; I came face-to-face with Luke’s Granny, and took the opportunity to ask her, “Marilyn, can you dance?”

She replied, “Sure I can. Do you want to dance?”

Thank you Jesus, it’s an answer to prayer, no doubt about it!

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

"Biscuit" eggs on my Muffin

After writing about long distance customer service I have had a couple of memorable face-to-face customer service experiences that made me shake my head. This morning, I drove through the “breakfast on the go” spot in my hometown. Since they were advertising a special on their sausage, egg and cheese muffins, I wheeled in to pick up a couple.

The voice in the box says, “Welcome! Would you to try our warm cereal in a cup?”

I spoke directly into the box, “No thank you. I’d like two sausage, egg and cheese muffins, please.”

The voice in the box says, “Um, I’m sorry. But those eggs that we put on the muffins, um, we’re out of those. All we have is the eggs like we put on the biscuits.”

I thanked him and drove away thinking, I had no idea that they were completely different eggs! At my house, we use eggs in the little yellow Styrofoam carton for everything. In fact, on a typical day, the eggs in the morning omelet probably sat RIGHT NEXT to the egg that ended up in the brownies cooked later in the day. Of course, I’d never admit this to Mr. “voice in the box” at the drive-thru. He might have a breakdown.

Just a half hours later, in a different town and a different drive-thru, I heard the lady in the car in front of me speak loudly and incredulously to the box, “Coffee! I just want coffee.”

The voice in the box says, “I can do Pepsi. We just have Pepsi products!”

Exasperated woman, with protruding veins in her neck, “You don’t have coffee? A breakfast place and you don’t have coffee?’

Voice in the box says, “Pepsi, diet Pepsi, Mountain Dew, Orange, you know, any Pepsi products. We just have Pepsi products.”

Miss “protruding veins” drove off in a huff. No coffee; no breakfast; nothing but high blood pressure and a bad attitude. I really hope she got to where she was going without a stroke.

It made me think of the great attitude my great uncle Sylvester had. I don’t really remember him. If I ever met him, it couldn’t have been more than once, and that would have been when I was really young. Uncle Sylvester and Aunt Eunice live in a pretty large town. Their daughter, Alma and her husband worked for years in her husband’s family’s bakery. My brother tells the story of visiting Uncle Sylvester and Aunt Eunice once. Just at mealtime, Alma brought in a pie from the bakery that was slightly overcooked. She was all apologetic.

“Daddy, I’m so sorry that the pie is burnt,” she said.

“Nonsense,” Uncle Sylvester said. “It is just right! If it was any blacker, we couldn’t eat it. But if it was any lighter, we wouldn’t have gotten it. Yes, it is just right.”

So I guess I should have just had the “biscuit eggs” on my muffin this morning and been happy about it….

Monday, February 14, 2011

Customer Service

I had to call customer service today to get a replacement credit card. Although I was dreading the call, it went well. I didn't wait a long time to talk to someone. Brad was very helpful. He understood my English and I understood his. I checked the calendar to be sure it was 2011 and not 1968. I had to go back and find something I wrote down several years ago to share. Please note that business names have been changed, where appropriate, to protect the innocent.

If you have a problem or question, please call our friendly customer service at 1-800-376-7333 (800 DROP DED). If you have ever had a problem with a product or service, you know that the adventure is only beginning when the problem is identified.

I have often wondered how companies decide what the hours of operation are going to be for their customer service department. My very first experience in this area was when I bought a new gas grill at Floormart several (many) years ago. Right on the assembly instruction booklet it said, “If you have questions or missing parts, do not contact the retailer where you purchased this item. Please call our customer service department at 1800 NO HELP, (or something like that) Monday thru Friday 8AM-5PM EST.” my immediate question was why aren’t they open evenings and weekends when I am at home, trying to put this thing together? When I finally got them, they were friendly, spoke understandable English, and had to send me my replacement glass piece only twice before I received it all in one piece!

A lot of companies have moved their customer service overseas. This may actually help with the time issue, but my people sometimes have problems understanding people from Atlanta, so India is a completely new paradigm for us. The only time I have ever had a real language barrier with someone in customer service, I finally asked her where she was.

“New Jersey,” she said.

Uh oh!

Living in a small town leads to its own set of customer service experiences. For years my Internet Service Provider (ISP) was a small, privately owned telephone company from a nearby town. A few years ago, they were bought out by a national company. To protect the innocent, and for other legal reasons, I will refer to this national company as Breezecreek.

Soon after they acquired my ISP, I got a nice email from their customer service department explaining some of the enhancements that they were going to roll out in the coming months. I was excited. Three months later, I got a nice email explaining that as of 1 April, they would be discontinuing ISP service to my area. This brought the concept of enhancement to a completely new level. This was one bit of advertising that was exactly as advertised. It died right on schedule.

What Breezecreek failed to tell me was the fact that they planned on continuing to bill my credit card AFTER 1 April. This is a wonderful business model if your customers don’t look at their bill. I did. As soon as I noticed this, I immediately called the number listed RIGHT ON MY BILL. After hearing several minutes of infomercials on what great products they had to offer, and how my business was SO important to them, I finally talked to Marie. She was courteous as could be and it only took about ten minutes (and several infomercials on hold) to figure out that I needed to talk to an entirely different toll-free number.

Lisa (at the new number) assured me that it was all taken care of. Great! Breezecreek only billed my credit card two more times before I finally got it cleared up.

In the late 60’s I worked at Homer Garrett’s Grocery in Hawkinsville GA. People like Ms Barker would call and tell me exactly what she wanted, (a quart of milk, a half-pound of good lean ground beef, three potatoes, not too big, a can of Green Giant green beans, etc.) and to bring change for a five. She would say when I was to deliver it too.

I would always be sure to include several dimes in her change because I knew she wouldn’t spend them. (She saved dimes for Christmas gifts for her grandchildren.) She’d complain by saying, “Billy, you know I’m on a fixed income, bringing me all these dimes. I declare, I won’t be able to eat the last week of this month.”

No, 40+ years ago you didn’t have to get abused in broken English by customer service via a bad phone connection to Pakistan. It could be delivered right to your kitchen table by a teenager with a bad case of acne.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Winter Funk

For those of you that I haven’t communicated with since last year, I wish a belated Happy New Year to you all! I hope that you had a fine time during the holidays and was able to spend some time with those you love. Now it is time to hang that new calendar and drag out that list of stuff that you were planning to get to “next year.” As I have said recently, I was not built for cold weather. It has been an ugly couple of weeks on Chicken Road. This past weekend was much better, but yesterday and today is more like a beautiful spring day in Moscow than Late January or early February in South Georgia.

The holiday season can be a hard time for some people. With all the emphasis on family togetherness, the holidays can remind many of the loved ones and friends who are no longer with them. Other people make it through the holidays just fine, but have a post holiday letdown. Short days, no big gatherings to look forward to, back to work, and lastly those holiday bills begin pouring in. YUCK! We all develop our personal ways of dealing with these winter blahs. I have found that post-holiday mail can actually HELP. I’m not talking about those nice letters from “Publisher’s Clearinghouse”. I’m talking catalogs! Although the internet has certainly reduced the demand for them, Catalogs, especially seed catalogs, can brighten up a pretty dreary existence. The most memorable one came about ten years ago. Although it was not about seeds, it just brightened my day. Actually, it brightened several days and nights. (I don’t know what happened to these people since this was the only one I ever received from them.) It was so good that I made notes:

It featured a nice lamp with a river birch bark shade. Not just ANY river birch bark, but “bark that has fallen naturally onto the forest floor.” I can’t remember the price, but the description made you think that it just might be a bargain! (and you were removing the birch bark litter from the forest floor too!)

I have a couple of other examples that are quotable:

“Smooth river stones, wrapped by Philippine artisan with tilot vine to create a marvelous contrast of color and texture. (stones are approximately 2-3”) set of 10 wrapped stones $55.” (I’ve looked it up. I still don’t know what “tilot vine” looks like. My computer just thinks it’s a misspelled word. Google couldn’t find it either, but suggested “toilet wine.” I was not brave enough to click on that!)

“ETERNAL BIRDS NEST: Chunks of concrete and rusted wire retrieved from demolition rubble are recreated into an endearing little nest to cradle small smooth egg shaped stones plucked from a river bed...........each will vary slightly. Approximately 6” high. $79.”

And my favorite:

“FLYING FISH PIN: Cleverly assembled from recycled parts of vintage watches, this winged fish dangles a plump heart charm, handmade of brass by a Florida jeweler with a sense of humor; $39” (If they just had it in a tie tack.)

How could anyone read that and not smile just a little, especially knowing the writer is serious and in most cases, show you a picture of the product.

Put another log on the fire and pass me another catalog. I think that I’ll whip this winter funk yet!

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Ice and snow in the South

Well, the snow and ice has finally melted in middle Georgia. In shaded areas, it held on for more than a week. That must be some kind of record for this part of the world. We had way too many consecutive days with lows in the teens and twenties. I have said it a thousand times, if I really wanted to live like that, I could have moved to Ohio thirty years ago when someone else would have paid for it.

My wife’s Aunt Lee, who lived in Goldsboro, NC most of her life, would stop the newspaper, turn off the water and leave for Florida every year at the first prediction of frost. She wouldn’t come back until Easter. I always loved her for that because I could identify with that. It made sense to me because I despise having to wear thermal anything!

Yesterday morning I was looking out the window, watching the birds and squirrels in the yard. I commented that the squirrels this winter were the fattest I ever remember seeing. I guess they have been just lying around in their recliners, eating nuts and watching football like the rest of us. Well, maybe not the football part, but I did get the idea that they probably had been a little lax with their physical activities and diet since Thanksgiving. OK. Maybe seeing them made me think about how lax I have been during that time period.

I am just glad that it has warmed up some. Don’t worry. I am not going to do something crazy; I just want to be able to walk around the block without being afraid I’ll slip on the ice. I don’t know what P90X means and my daughter had to explain who Jillian Michaels is. A couple of the guys from church are doing the Insanity workout video. (How crazy is that?)

You just can't believe how glad I am that the ice and snow nightmare is over. I had this recurring dream that they had moved my hometown to Ohio. As pretty as it was, I prefer to visit the snow and ice rather than it coming to me. In fact, I like snow best on Christmas cards, and on TV in fringe viewing areas.