I Remember Daddy.... Part 4

This is forth in a series of friends’ fond memories of their dads and the lessons that they learned from them. I hope that you have enjoyed them as much as i have enjoyed collecting them...(see Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.  Happy Father's Day.  bd

JED reminisced, “Several memories come to mind.  As far as I know, dad never played organized sports of any kind and yet he would throw the baseball with me when I played Little League.  Looking back, I realize that you don’t have to be good at something, or even like it, to take an interest in what your kids are doing.  I guess that’s why I try to go hunting with my son as much as possible even though he’s way more excited about it than I am."

  

"I also remember a time when dad went in half on a boat with me.  It was more like 30/70 because I paid $250 for the motor and dad paid $600 for the boat.  He was not an avid fisherman, but I can remember many fun-filled trips to Lake Juliette, even though we didn’t catch very many fish.  Lastly, I remember one fishing trip when I told dad I knew a short cut off Hwy 96 down a dirt roads.  I got turned around and the next thing I know, dad got the old 78 Toyota truck stuck in a mud hole.  We tried everything we could to get that truck out, to no avail.  I never once saw my dad get angry nor did he blame me for getting him lost.  We simply walked until we found some loggers who were kind enough to drive back to our truck and pull us out with a skidder.”

MBR remembered, “When I think back on my childhood the memories that stand out for me is when my Dad was saved. The complete transformation from a drunk and a chain smoker to a man who went to every service he could find and he prayed all the time. He never drank or smoked again after that week. I knew without a doubt then that there was indeed power in the blood of Jesus. Then I remember my grandpa and grandma always prayed for my dad. When I doubt what God can do in my situations I have proof of the power of prayer and of what mighty things God is willing to do for me!”

“We would go by for a visit and we could not carry on a normal conversation, but when someone began to talk about church or the Lord, his eyes would light up and he would raise his voice.  I could understand him then.  The tears flowing from his eyes let me know what he was feeling in his heart.”

JMH said, “Wow! I have so many memories of my Daddy. We were very close. One special memory is of just the two of us getting up before dawn on Saturday mornings. I would “help” him hitch up his fishing boat, load up our gear, and pack stuff for lunch. (Always sardines and white bread just in case we didn’t catch anything big enough to eat.)”

“We’d sit in that boat for hours on end. He’d try to pull up close to a shoreline under some trees whenever possible – after he rattled the branches with the oar to be sure no snakes were napping on them.”

“About noon we would pull into shore. He would build a fire, take out his trusty iron skillet, jar of cornmeal mix and a jar of cooking oil. He’d clean the fish and fry them and hush puppies over the open fire. I can remember watching them fry with anticipation (and hunger). Those fish always tasted better than fish we fried at home somehow.”

“I learned soooo much from my Daddy. Integrity for sure: keep your word no matter what, always tell the truth, always be honest in dealing with other people, do your duty, make hard choices based on right and wrong – not emotions, take care of your family, trust and obey God even when it is hard.”

BTL told me, “I feel that the greatest thing that my dad did for me was to teach me about Jesus. I remember going back to the area where he grew up as a child and experiencing swimming in the springs that he swam in as a child.  I cherish having gone with my dad to visit and pray for the sick, as a very small child. My dad taught me to give my tithe to the Lord, be honest, treat others the way I would want to be treated, and to work hard to provide for my family.  I learned how to fish, change a tire, and yard work from him.” 

“My dad was a very humble person.  He was a great pastor, and he was my best friend”

Until this morning, I had intended to not add my own thoughts since my father died when I was two.  I don't really remember my  Dad.  This morning I am reminded of two things about my Dad.  When his mother died, he spent many years paying off the family debts.  He did this not just because he would inherit the family farm by doing so, but to protect the family name.  The second thing is that he made preparations for his wife and sons in case anything ever happened to him, they would all be protected. 

I hope you have a wonderful Father's Day.  If you still have him, give him a call or go see him.  Feel free to post a fond memory of your dad in the comments 

People are Funnier Than.........

Almost 30 years ago a coworker and friend I'll call Dwayne said, “people are funnier than anybody.”  My friend was right.

It has always amused me that people apparently think they are invisible when they get into their car.  Even when they are driving, women “adjust” and check out their makeup or their hair as if they can’t be seen.  Men clean their ears, primp, pick their teeth and even worse.  People reading a book, a map or a newspaper have passed me on the way to work. 

About ten years ago, the same woman passed me almost every morning as I drove to work.  Not that I mind being passed by a woman, but I was driving about 65 and she was applying eye makeup as she passed me, using the lighted mirror on the back of her sun visor.  Since it was before daybreak, I would watch as the glow of that lighted mirror would go over the distant hill in front of me each morning.

Men and women now use their commute time to talk on their cell phones.  Don’t get me wrong, I do it sometimes myself.  Other than the time you are dialing, I don’t think that the act of TALKING on a cell phone is any more dangerous than talking to someone in the car with you.  I have been surprised to see some pass me, holding their cell phone with one hand and gesturing with the other.  It made me wonder what kind of autopilot they had.

  

Cell phones certainly are a real asset for us to keep in touch with our family, loved ones as well as work.  It has finally moved from status symbol to a useful tool and finally just about a necessity.  However, I continue to be amazed by how some folks act as they use these things.  Some folks must believe that they become inaudible as soon as they hit the “send” button.  Either that or they completely lose their sense of where they are.  Once while traveling,  I overheard a woman talking on her cellphone, who was walking through the airport say, “Yes I’m here in Orlando and I just hate this airport.  It is the absolute worst!”  She was getting in line for ice cream on concourse B at the ATLANTA airport.

People that would look at you like you were CRAZY if you ask them their name think nothing of exposing their name, address, phone number, Social Security number, mothers maiden name and more while talking in public on their cell phone.  I have heard about hysterectomies, gall bladder surgeries and divorce, all in more detail than anyone would want to hear, while waiting for a table at Longhorn. 

When you travel, it seems as though it is even worse.  I have heard lawyers give advice, and threaten while in the privacy of the gate area with 200 other people waiting for a plane.  I have overheard enough business details in a series of cell calls that someone listening could have absolutely wrecked some pretty good deals.

I think that parking lots are probably the most unique place for people, though.  Like on the road, people must believe that they are invisible not only as they drive into the parking lot, but also must believe that they remain invisible for at least 10 feet as they leave their car.  Many people, particularly heavyset ones do an inordinate amount of adjusting and retrieving undergarments from areas of anatomy that I’d rather not discuss too much.  I can’t imagine that they would do that if they knew that we could actually see them. 

This 10-foot “invisibility buffer” obviously is only effective when you are leaving your car.  I say this because these same people bounce up like a Superball if they slip and fall when they are returning to their car.  They may break their hip or leg, but they jump up and look around to see if anyone actually SAW them fall.  If you ask them if they are OK, they will invariably say, “Sure, I’m fine.”  They’ll say this even if they have bones protruding and are bleeding profusely.  

Yes Dwayne, you were right 30 years ago and you are right now, people are just funnier than anybody.   

The World in a Book

A couple of months ago when I was out of town, Encyclopedia Britannica announced that it was ceasing publication of their print edition after 244 years. I couldn’t help but think back to when we got our first encyclopedia at home. They were a 1961, or so edition of the World Book Encyclopedia. I was in heaven.

I remember saying something at school about looking things up in the World Book. One of my more affluent friends kind of sneered that he had the Encyclopedia Britannica. I remember thinking that it couldn’t possibly be any better than the World Book. Several years later, I was in the library and looked through a volume of the Britannica thinking, “I am glad I had my old trusty World Books instead of this. I could have never written all those reports at Dodge Elementary if I had to use this as a reference.” It may have been more scholarly that my trusty World Book, but at least I understood what I read in mine. Besides, Britannica was LEATHER BOUND. No one in my house would have let me touch a leather bound book of any kind until I was old enough to drive.

One of my best friends growing up had a set of grocery store encyclopedia (I don’t remember the name.) His Mom was buying them one volume at a time when she had the money and there was a featured volume available that they didn’t have. I assume that this is why he knew so little about topics, beginning with the letters J-K, N-O, and V-Z. Apparently, these volumes were never featured when there was extra cash in their household.

I really don’t remember the traveling salesman that sold the books to my mom. In fact, for all I know, we may have had a used set. I have no idea what that set cost my mother in the early 60’s. I am quite sure it was a lot of money to her, but he was willing to sacrifice so that her child could learn. They would be available to me at home, every day, all year long. It worked. From the day we first got them until I was grown, I remember going to the bookshelf to look up something and end up reading article after article. I do essentially the same thing today when I look up something on-line. It was my Google, Wikipedia, and CIA world fact book all rolled up and bound in cream and green fake leather with gold embossing on the cover.

I’m sure that the print encyclopedia business will soon be a thing of the past and all be gone shortly. Even though I have moved on and it has been years since I picked one up, I can’t help but be a little sad to see them go.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

"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….

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.

Gifts not wrapped

On my way home from the Mall of Georgia, I began to think about how our annual family Christmas shopping trip really puts me in the Christmas spirit. I know that the economy is probably as bad as it has ever been in my lifetime. However, I really didn’t get that impression with the traffic, the line winding out of the door at Starbucks, or the people searching for a table in the food court. I know that Christmas is way too commercialized, but I love the sense of excitement that is all around when we’re there. Of course, I probably wouldn’t feel this way if I were actually SHOPPING. I am usually just the designated driver and my hardest decision is what I want to eat.

One source says that four million tons of wrapping paper and shopping bags will be discarded during a typical holiday season. If my Mother were alive, she’d say, “You can’t blame that on me. I recycle.”

She certainly did. It was amusing to our entire family how carefully she would unwrap each gift so that not only the ribbon, but also the paper and box could be stored and reused the next year. There is at least a remnant of that tradition left in our family. We have several boxes and gift bags that have been used many times. I suspect they will be under the tree this Christmas morning. (They probably already are.)

As much as I enjoy finding things for my friends and family, I am convinced that the best gifts that we can give are gifts that you can’t wrap. There are so many of these, but I’ll just list a few that come to mind today:

Give smiles. When you are out and about, spread some cheer of your own. Children in the malls, especially the little ones, are usually all smiles. Give them one back.

Give kind words. Those employed in retail are expected to be courteous and wish you a Merry Christmas, (or something more generic.) Beat them to it! “Merry Christmas” them all first and mean it!

Make the call. Between the price of postage and our busy lifestyle, we probably send fewer Christmas cards than in the past. Look through your phone/address book and call someone. Make several calls. Don’t just call your regular ones. Call someone that is not expecting to hear from you. It will be good for both of you.

Give of your time. Everyone always seems to be so busy. Are we all really that busy? We need to be sure that we save some time to spend with those that we love. If you can, save some time to volunteer for some cause that is important to you. If you volunteer with a loved one it will be a real winner.

Give your undivided attention. I am among the worst at trying to multitask. I was never good at it, but as I get older I get worse at it. When you spend time with your loved ones, give them some time that is not shared with your phone, computer or TV.

Slow down and make memories. I can remember some of my early Christmas presents. I remember my first bicycle, a J.C. Higgins model, and a few other things. Of all the Christmas memories I have, the fondest ones were not about things. They are smells, sounds, and times with loved ones. I didn’t feel that way then, but I certainly do now.

Last week, I was on my way home from work, sitting at a traffic light. A school bus crossed in front of me. I could see that the interior was decorated with wreaths, candy canes and stockings. The driver had written on the inside of the windows, “Jesus is the reason for the season.” Of course, that made me smile. I first thought, “When I was growing up, all of the drivers were old farmers who wouldn’t think of decorating their bus.” However, the real impact was the fact that this woman had taken the time to spread real Christmas cheer, truly a gift that cannot be wrapped.

Merry Christmas!

Not what I expected... at the cemetery

I knew the deceased years ago. Actually, the children of the deceased were the ones I knew best. The entire immediate family had moved away when I was a teenager. I don’t remember seeing any of them very much over the last 40 years. There had been marriages, divorces, and new marriages. Even their children were grown and gone.

As it turned out, I was available and everything just fell into place for me to go to the interment and I felt like it was the right thing to do. It was actually a very agreeable day. It had been threatening rain all morning, but when the time came, there was just an intermittent mist and a cool, pleasant breeze.

The minister, who did not know the honoree well, spoke strong and well about the legacy we leave, the seeds we sow, and we all have a time like this coming.

Then, suddenly, the music happened. (The minister told me later that he thought, “They didn’t tell me that there would be music.”) It was unplanned, but nonetheless, special music. Someone’s cell phone alerted not only the owner, but the entire solemn crowd. The ringtone, you ask? Yes, the ringtone. I know it well. Bill Wither’s “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone…..”

I almost strangled…. I tried, desperately, to clear my throat. It just wasn’t happening.

The minister? A consummate professional. He did the only thing he could do. He prayed.

Looking back, it was certainly a memorable occasion. In fact, I'll never forget it. Leaving a cemetery with a smile on your face just doesn’t happen very often.

45 Grannies

I have quoted my friend Dwayne many times. He used to say (and probably still does say,) “people are funnier than anybody.”

A few weeks ago I was on a plane from London to Atlanta. I had settled into an aisle seat, gotten myself comfortable and began to read. I was pretty much ready for the nine plus hours of travel. A nice young lady came up to me and asked me if I could swap seats so that her aunt could sit beside someone she knew. I agreed and before I could get to my new seat, I was traded again. Of course, I didn’t care. All of these trades kept me in aisle seats.

When I finally settled down, I was beside two nice British women, Nan and Janet.

Janet said something like, “you aren’t going to be trouble, are you.”

I just explained that I’d just take off my shoes and would read or sleep for most of the trip.

“You’ll not take off your shoes and you won’t sleep much because we will need to be walking every 30-45 minutes and, since we’ll be drinking a lot of water to remain hydrated, we’ll need to go the lavatory often too,” Janet said, with Nan nodding.

I told them, “I don’t think so.”

We talked a bit and I asked them if they were on holiday and if this was their first trip to America. They explained to me that, yes it was their first trip and that they were part of a tour group: 45 women (late 60s, early 70s) from northern England. They had taken the four hour bus ride to London that morning.

“Where are you going in the US,” I asked.

“We’re going to Graceland, the Jack Daniels distillery and Houston.”

“I can’t believe that they are going to get 45 nice British women all liquored up and then take them to NASA.”

By this time, we were in the air and the nice crew came by offering refreshments. I had water. Nan AND Janet had white wine. Two bottles each. This was not exactly what I had in mind when they said, “Stay hydrated.”

As it turned out, the tour is actually a two week whirlwind tour that goes from Atlanta, has several stops in Tennessee, Mississippi and New Orleans and finally ends in Houston. They will see some of the great places the South has to offer: The Georgia Aquarium, Lookout Mountain, The Grand Ole Opry, and several Civil war era homes in Vicksburg, MS. They’re even going to eat an Authentic Southern Meal. (Well hush my mouth.)

“What should we expect in a southern meal?” Nan asked.

I explained that whatever it was, they could expect the meat to be either smoked or fried. If they were lucky, they may even get some turnip greens and cornbread, if they were lucky. The tea would be iced and sweet, just like God intended.

Nan rang for more white wine.

Before we got off the plane in Atlanta, I asked the ladies if they would be buying velvet Elvis paintings at Graceland.

Nan said, “We’ll buy something really nice there, I’m sure. I just hope Priscilla is not there. Elvis would be alive and singing today if it wasn’t for her.”

Well welcome to America, Nan. Welcome to America.

Barney Time

Since the 50th anniversary of the first Flintstone episode was 30 September, and the first Andy Griffith episode premiered 3 October, 1960, I thought that it would be a good time to dust this one off. Although I wrote this almost ten years ago, it is one of my favorites. bd

Getting older is not the same as getting old..... at least not before you turn 50. I'm here to tell you that it's iffy afterwards. I can remember when "old folks" used to predict the weather with their aches and pains. I laughed then, but it's not nearly as funny as it used to be because I'm beginning to be my own weather channel myself.

When I say Barney, who comes to mind? The answer says a lot about your age and upbringing. I asked the question of a young guy in my office. Without hesitation he said "that purple Dinosaur that the kids watch." He probably watched ol' Barney himself growing up. The purple Barney made his debut in 1987 on PBS and, as far as I know, has been there ever since.

Anyone born between the late 1950s and mid-60s would probably say "Barney Rubble, of course." Along with his wife Betty and son Bam-Bam, this Barney lived next door to Fred, Wilma and Pebbles Flintstone from the fall of 1960 till 1966. Actually, they live on in syndication and on the cartoon channel, as well as a couple of theme parks.

My generation would definitely say Barney Fife who still lives in syndication all over the world. Although he was on "The Andy Griffith Show" for only the first 5 years of the 1960-1968 series, he was certainly a key player. If you have cable, you can probably find an episode playing right now. I have friends that argue that the episodes without Barney are no good. Others say that if it is in color, just turn it off. Still other folks won't watch anything on television that is NOT color. These folks are missing more than Barney and I'm sure would name one of the other Barneys when asked the "Which Barney" question. My guess is that they would say, "The purple one."

"The Andy Griffith Show" has certainly endured the test of time. Teachers use the show in classrooms. There are even Sunday school classes that use the episodes as a basis for lessons.

Ask the Barney question to those of my mama's generation and you will probably get "Barney Google". Barney Google made his debut in 1919 in the comic section of the newspaper. I couldn't pick Barney Google out of a police line-up. Google (the search engine) tells me that Barney is still an infrequent visitor to Snuffy Smith, but how should I know. The only thing I can tell you about Barney Google is that the favorite cheer of my high school Principal was:

"Barney Google, Andy Gump, we've got Dublin up a stump, WOOOOOOA Sparkplug!"

It would be years before I knew that Spark Plug was Barney Google's horse.

The group that we should really feel sorry for is those born between 1968 (when "Andy" went into syndication) and 1987 (when the purple one made his first appearance on PBS.) These folks are very frustrated people. I suspect that a good many of the problems we have today are caused by these “in-between Barney” folks.

This is not to say that the “Purple Barney” crowd is a problem-free lot. Let’s just say I have my doubts about ANYONE who has spent a whole lot of time watching some guy dressed up in a heavily padded fuzzy purple get-up complete with dragging tail and green tummy. I can’t imagine that THAT Barney will be in (rerun) syndication 34 years after it left first-run TV, nor will any Sunday school lessons ever be based on an episode.

I am unabashedly from the “one bullet” Barney crowd. When I see Ron Howard (Opie) on TV with no hair, or Andy all wrinkled and gray, I can hardly believe that it has been so long. They have gotten so much older. Aunt Bee Floyd and Barney are long gone. They taught us so much. Of course, time hasn’t done that much to me. I could go on, but my bifocals are acting up, it’s time for my medicine and my knees tell me it is about to rain. I’ll just close for now by asking you which Barney comes to your mind?