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, November 10, 2011
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.
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?
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.
“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…..
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.
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.
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.
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