The Incredible Uniqueness of the Mundane
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Transcript of The Incredible Uniqueness of the Mundane
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The Incredible Uniqueness of the MundaneTable of Contents
The Incredible Uniqueness of the Mundane....................................................... 3INTRODUCTION......................................................................................... 3On the Farm................................................................................................. 5Cotton Picking Time.................................................................................... 17Christmas Morning...................................................................................... 23My Baptism................................................................................................ 28Snow Days.................................................................................................. 33
Motorcycles and Evergreen Bushes................................................................ 38Leachvilles Gym......................................................................................... 46Grandma and Grandpa Down The Hills........................................................... 53Grandma and Grandpa Up The Hills............................................................... 58My Wife..................................................................................................... 67Good Times / Tough Times.......................................................................... 78Birmingham................................................................................................ 82Were Gointo Jackson (Tennessee that is).................................................... 94God Spoke................................................................................................ 110Homecoming............................................................................................ 1169/11/01..................................................................................................... 121Building Our House.................................................................................... 125Cheeze-its and Orange Soda........................................................................ 128Campfires, and Hide and Go Seek................................................................ 133Im Fat - What Happened?........................................................................ 137Where We Are Now.................................................................................. 143
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The Incredible Uniqueness of the MundaneINTRODUCTION
Routines: We all have them. Many determined souls try not to
have them, but in trying to avoid them, they wind up developing the
routine of avoiding routines. Im not saying that routines are bad;
having routines offer stability, the capability to plan, and something that
is steadfast in this world where change is, wellroutine. Life becomes
a machine and we are thrown into the hopper, spit out on the assembly
line, and carried through the stages of our day. Hours turn into days,
days to months; and months to years.
Although routine is not all together bad, sneaky dangers lay
waiting in routine. These dangers are silent and, over time, candesensitize the human spirit to the point where we miss opportunities to
allow our eyes to be opened in ways that permit our soul to breathe. In
those times, we are truly human and experience life as it should be.
Other times, we fail to see the miracle of the moment. Those fleeting
times whisk by and are so often missed. After theyregone, we wish we
would have taken the time to experience that moment more intensely.
Routineseem to be the grey paint that we allow to mask the vivid colors
of our lives.
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There is hope. Within the routine of our lives are those moments
that provide opportunity to pierce the grey. If we choose, these
moments can revive our soul with a flood of emotion that will imprint
these experiences in our memory forever. It is up to us to consciously
and purposefully take those times and refuse to allow complacency to
paint them grey; we must push back against the lure of routine that
desires to rob us of our miracle moment.
I want to share some of my lifes moments with you. Some
stories are short; some are a bit longer, but all have tremendous
meaning. These seasons and events span my life; from growing up in
and around the small country town of Leachville, Arkansas to my
current residence of Jonesboro, Arkansas. These are times when my
conscious seemed to be more aware. When I realized that I am alive.
During these times, my senses are sharp and I am acutely aware of
all that is around me. I believe that it is in these times when we come to
know who we are. We identify with the essence of humanity and the
awesomeness of the life- giving breath of God in our soul. It is in these
times that we know what God intended when He made us uniquely
human.
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On the Farm
When I was a child, we lived on Earl Wildys farm a couple of
miles off Highway 18 between Manila and Monette, Arkansas. At this
time, Mom and Dad both worked at the Wildys greenhousesjust down
the dirt road from our house. Our home wasnt that big, but it was big
enough for Mom, Dad, my brother, and me. It was situated with fields
in front and back, my aunt and uncles house was southof the house and
a fenced pasture across a dirt road was on the north side of our yard. A
big diesel powered water pump fed the rice fields in front of our house.
It was situated beside the pasture and ran all night long. I was so used to
falling asleep with the pump running that on the few times when it was
not, I found it hard to go to sleep.
I remember my dad buying me a Daisy BB gun when I was very
young; probably no more than 5 or younger. I wasnt old enough to hunt
so the BB gun was the only other option. I remember being out in the
front yard one afternoon hunting field birds with my gun. I saw this
black bird sitting high up in the tree. My gun was not too accurate. I
could see the shot come out of the barrel and make an arch. BBs are not
supposed to make arches! They are supposed to fly straight toward the
prey!
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I thought, Ill just sneak up on the bird; get right under it then
shoot straight up. It took me what seemed like hours to make my way
under the bird, but finally, I was there and ready to shoot. POP! I
shot The bird just flinched. I thought I had missed when several
seconds later the bird just falls out of the tree! I had hit my first bird!
However, I had not killed it. It was just lying on the ground looking
around.
Instead of shooting the bird again, I ran into the house and got
some gloves. I picked the bird up and was looking to see where I had
shot it. After a while of looking at it (and it looking at me) I found that I
had grazed the top of its head. When I brushed my finger over the top of
its skull, the skin pulled back and I could see directly under the feathers.
I thought that was just the coolest thing! Then, I felt sort of sorry for the
bird and thought, Im going to make him better! I went into the house
and got an old shoe box, some tape, peroxide, and some Band-Aids. I
immediately set up a MASH triage unit on our picnic table in the back
yard.
I realized that I had damaged the birds ability to fly. I pulled some
cotton off the stalks from the field behind my house and put in a box.
Then I sat the bird safely on the cotton. I took peroxide and put a few
drops on the birds head then bandaged him up. The bandage went all the
way around his head sort of like a bonnet.
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After he was safe and all doctored up, I found our shovel and dug
up some worms for the bird to eat and got some water for the injured
bird to drink. I know this sounds weird but I would cut the worms up
and poke them down its throat with a small twig then take a dropper and
give it something to drink.
I managed to keep that bird alive for 3 days. The wound was
healing and it had started trying to squawk. Then, one day, I came
outside and found feathers all over the place. I guess a cat had found it
and made supper (or breakfast) out of the bird. I was so mad that a cat
(or something) had eaten the bird Ihad tried to kill and then nurse back
to health. I know it sounds a bit ironic but I was only five or so. I can
still see the images of that bird with his head wrapped up in those
bandages and his black eyes staring at me. I dont think I ever shot
another bird with that gun. Not because I didnt try; the gun was just not
that powerful and I was not that good of a shot.
The Wildy family had a St. Bernard dog named Benchmark. He
met us every day after school ready to play. Gosh that dog was big! To
a young boy, he was huge! I remember my brother and I riding that dog
like it was a horse. He would tirelessly carry us around the house over
and over again. Sometimes we would wrestle around with Benchmark
and he would drool all over the place because, well thats what St.
Bernards do.. We didnt care though. He was our favorite buddy.
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One particular evening, our family was settling down for the night.
It was dark outside. Mom was in the kitchen as I remember, and Dad
was sitting in his chair cracking pecans in his tee shirt. I remember a
young man coming to the door and Dad talking to him through the
screen door. He said, Sir, I think I might have hit one of your cows.
Dad went out to look but it wasnt a cow; he had hit Benchmark.
It was terrible. Benchmark had walked out in front of that car and there
was nothing the guy could do. We called David Wildy who was
Benchmarks owner, and the next day; just like that; Benchmark was
gone.
Even today, when I close my eyes, I can still see that huge white
and brown face and those kind droopy eyes of his. Man! That dog was
ugly; but he had such a gentle nature. I spent hours walking down dirt
roads, sitting under the trees in our yard or beside the house by the gas
meter just talking to that dog. He was an amazing friend and would
never judge... just listen, then lick.
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The farm was a great place to be a kid. My pre-teen years were
mid- to- late 70s. Buffalo ditch was just north down the road in front
of our home with nothing but farm land and treed fence rows lining its
banks. I could see someone coming a mile away because of the dust
their car would blow up as they drove down those dry dirt roads. My
uncles familylived in the house beside the wooden bridge that crossed
Buffalo ditch just south of the bridge. Once on the bridge, I could look
down the road another mile and see my other Aunt and Uncles house.
When I was a kid, the water flowed in Buffalo ditch and I would
spend hours fishing off the one lane rickety old wood bridge talking to
people as they crossed. Many times, it was no more than, Catchin
anything? Or Havin any luck? I would show them what I had
caught or just say, Nawnot much.. They would go on and I would
get back to fishing.
Those were good times; especially about the time the sun went
down just before the mosquitoes came out. The water would get calm
with the occasional splash of a jumping fish or bull frog hopping in the
water. About dusk, the calm air would be filled with the sounds of a
distant lone Killdeer somewhere in the fields around me and the horde of
cicadas in the trees that lined the waters edge.
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If the fish were not biting, I would find myself making my way
down the steep reed packed bank via the narrow path that we made.
There, I would look for crawdads off the small sandy bank or try to
knock the turtles off logs with rocks that I would bring with me. Then,
as always, just about dark, I would make my way past my Aunt Diane
and Uncle Boyces house on myway home. Mom knew where I was; I
would always tell her before I walked out of the house. Goin fishin..
In return, I would hear, Be carefulbe back before dark!
Of course there were things that could bite or sting. There was
always the risk of falling off the bridge or cutting a hand or foot, but --- I
really didnt think of those things that much. I didnt worry about being
alone on the bridge or strangers showing up. Growing up there, I
learned what to look for and where not to go due to the countless times I
was instructed by my Dad. I guess subconsciously he taught me to
always be looking and watching.
At the time, it was just another day on the bridge thinking about
whatever came to mind; not really having an agenda or anything to do
other than watch the schools of shad swim by or throw rocks at the
occasional snake that would dare to cross from one side to the other. I
would watch as the sun set over the trees and observe in wonder as a
school of gnats would move in unison through the air.
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As I look back, I can see the importance of sitting. I can see value
of the blank agenda of a seven year old boy. Of course, I had chores to
do around the house and things for which I was responsible. At the
same time, there was always time to day dream and let the country day
have its fun with my imagination.
The ditch doesnt flow anymore and the old wood bridge has been
replaced by a concrete one. The old paths that led to the rivers edge
have long disappeared. There are very few trees that line the ditch
anymore; at least not like I remember as a kid. I guess this is one of the
reasons that memories like these are so precious. I remember them like
they were yesterday as I find myself wrapping up in them like a warm
blanket on a cold day.
When I think back to times on that bridge, I see the flowing water
as it seemed to disappear into the banks just where the ditch turned a
corner. The bridge ran north and south so I would always sit facing east
until the sun dropped into the tree line. Then, I would turn and sit facing
west and watch the sun slowly disappear through the trees. I can almost
feel the cool breeze coming up from the water as a welcome change to
the heat of the day. Sometimes I think God put that bridge there just so
I could watch the sunsets.
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The Bird Hunt I Remember the Most
Fall brought a whole new set of things to do. I remember waking
up Labor Day weekend to the sound of shot guns blasting and gun
smoke hovering close to the ground in front of the tree line as the sun
came up. It was dove season and the country was the place to be. I
remember the first time I went hunting with my dad. I took my 410
single shot and we nestled down in the reeds between a Milo field andthe ditch. It was awesome!
As the morning sun gave its light and the sky was turning from
black to blue, I would see those dove appear in the distance flying over
the fields on their way to water. I watched as my dad would pop up out
of the reeds and shoot that huge 12 gauge shot gun and down came the
birds.
It was on the cool side that morning. I remember several other
hunters out that day; many of them I knew and some I didnt but we
were all there for one reason birds! It seemed like that whole field
road was a puff of gun powder smoke from all the shells being fired.
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That smell will always stay with me as will the memories of that
day. My heart was pounding out of my chest as I would run out there to
get the birds and put them in our sack. I cant remember ifI shot a bird
that day or not. I just knew I was with my Dad and that was all that
mattered.
As time went on, I out grew the 410 and started taking my dads 12
gauge hunting by myself. Dad and I still go hunting together to this day.
However, now I get to take my boys with us giving them the memories
to someday put down on paper as I am doing now. Its hard to express
the satisfaction and pride I feel as I see my kids walking and talking with
my Dad as we make our way toward an old pecan grove or along side a
fence row just waiting for a rabbit or a bird to take off. Sometimes I
purposefully lag behind just so I can watch them walk together and
know that sometimes the BEST things never change.
Even though my dad is getting older and cant get around as well
as he once could, he still loads up whenever he can (sometimes he goes
even when he shouldnt) and takes off with us. Now that Im a dad I
realize that its not really about what we shoot or what we dont shoot.
It just about being together; walking and talking about whatever comes
to our mind. Its about unplugging from everything and stepping outside
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tobreathe. Its about finding myselfwanting to be the dad my father is
to me; and about my boys wanting to someday be the dad I am to them.
The good thing about living in the country is that a kid could step
out his front door and find a good place to hunt in a few minutes walk.
I remember one winter day. It was a weekend and there were a couple
of inches of snow on the ground and more falling. I got on my insulated
coveralls, gloves, boots, and mask then headed outside. As always, I
would tell mom that I was going hunting and she would tell me to be
careful and be back before it got dark.
This particular day, there was a slight cold wind blowing and the
sky was battleship grey. As I walked along the ditch bank and started to
look for rabbit tracks, I remember a huge sense of awareness. I stopped
and looked through the falling snow, across the field where I saw my
house in the distance. My nose was running and I was breathing a little
hard. I remember my face getting warm as I would breathe out my
mouth into the full face toboggan. The warm breath would warm the
knit over my mouth and cheeks then turn to fog as it hit the cold air.
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It was a lot harder to walk in the snow with all those clothes on and
carrying a heavy gun. I put my gun down and just stood there. It was so
calm and quiet I could hear the snow hitting the bare cotton stalks. I
looked down at the water in the ditch and it had started to freeze up on
the edges. The only movement came from sparrows darting from limb
to limb. I realized that not only was the sky grey, but the whole
landscape was grey as well.
Then, all of a sudden, I felt this overwhelming sense of being
alone, but not in a bad way. I was somehow a part of everything around
me. That nature had somehow let me in and I belonged there just as
much as those trees that grew along the narrow ditch bank, the water that
was trying so hard to find its way around the ice and down stream, or the
hard dirt I was standing on.
I was not even 13 years old, but I knew who, and what I was. Not
in the sense that I just realized I knew my name or that I was a boy, but I
knew that I was the son of good, hard working, and loving parents. I
knew that I had a multitude of people that loved me and cared for me. I
knew that I was an older brother, a country boy that could hunt and fish,
and at that moment, I believed I could be anything I wanted. I also knew
that I was expected to be honest and hard working, just like my parents;
and I was ok with that.
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It was standing in the snow on an old field row beside a half frozen
ditch that I caught my first glimpse of the character my parents had been
forming in me and I was proud to be who I was. I walked on after a
while; not really hunting but just shooting at whatever would fly up or
run by.
I really dont think I killed anything that day, but it seemed like I
walked until my legs were about to fall off. When I got home, mom was
there like she always was; the house was warm like it always was; and
things were good.
I guess there are times when God puts you in places where you can
think. Places where you can hear the snow hitting the brush along the
ditch and the wind howling in the trees. I didnt go out that day with the
notion of having a life changing moment. It just happened. These
moments always just happen. The trick is to be ready when they do.
I cant remember a lot about the day before or the day after. I just
know that at that particular time and at that particular place I was at
peace with myself. There was no other person within 2 miles of me, but
I was not alone. Even in the dead of winter, as I stood there on that ditch
bank, those things that looked dead somehow came alive and I knew it
I could feel it.
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Cotton Picking Time
The whole growing season was coming to an end. The farmers
were working way into the night getting the cotton and beans out of the
fields. Huge cotton pickers would rumble through the rows with
headlights on, slowly and methodically making there way from end to
end. The turbine on the front of the picker would strip the stalks clean
of the cotton and blow it into the huge back cage. As the cage filled up,
the huge machines would have to dump the picked cotton into the
trailers that were lined up at the end of each row.
When the trailers were full, they where hauled off to the cotton gin
where the cotton would be sucked out of the trailer, weighed, cleaned,
and processed. This was a busy time! Everybody was busy. The sides
of the gravel roads were lined with loose cotton that had blown out of
the trailers. Pickers were humming by on their way to the fields and
trucks were pulling loaded and empty trailers back and forth; it was a
fun time.
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I remember the first time my dad took me to the cotton fields
where my uncles were driving the pickers. It was after supper and
getting a little dark outside, but the pickers were still going. I had the
windows of our car down and could hear the familiar sound of the
killdeer. The air was filled with a combination of dust, cotton, and
machinery.
We pulled off the gravel road and onto the dirt field road where we
made our way to the trailers. Before we would stop, Dad would always
say, ok boys, roll yourwindows up. When we stopped, I remember
the dirt drifting by the front of the car. We always waited a little bit
before opening the car door so the dirt would have a chance to blow past
the car.
Some trailers were filled with cotton, some were full and others
were empty. I remember my dad asking if I wanted to jump around in
the cotton. I was a bit nervous because I had never done that before. I
had seen the farmers pull the pickers close to the trailers then that huge
bulging cage on the back would all of a sudden just lift up off the back
of the picker. As it tilted toward the trailer, the cage would open up until
the cotton would go tumbling out of the cage into the trailer.
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As most children do, I had a vivid imagination. I had never
tromped cotton before. My mind wondered how in the world I was
ever going to survive in the back of that cage with all that cotton being
blown on top of me as the picker went through the field. I had visions
of me standing there with cotton-boll husk being blown into my eyes
and no one being able to hear me screaming over the sound of the
picker.
Was I going to be pinned to the side of the cage as the hopper
filled up? Then dad said, go climb that ladder on the side of the trailer
and hop in! Then it all made sense! I was not going in the cage; I was
going in the trailer!
The trailers were made of mesh metal that stood about 10 feet tall
with a flat bed. The farmers loved for kids to come out and hop around
in the cotton. This would pack the cotton down for the farmers so they
could get more in the trailer which cut down on the number of trips they
had to make to the gin, and it was fun for the kids. When the pickers
were ready to dump the load of cotton, the kids would all move to the
front or the back of the trailer until the pickers had dumped their load.
Let me tell you, when that cotton dropped out into those trailers, the
whole thing would shake. It was great!!
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I remember my cousins coming out there and jumping in the cotton
with me. Oh, it was fun! Before long, I was standing on the edge doing
back flips in the cotton just like the older kids. We would have the
occasional cotton hull get logged in our pants or stalk in our shirt, but it
was worth it.
Yes, we could have fallen off the side of trailer and yes, there was
the danger of hitting one of the support poles of the trailer, but hey it
was fun and you knew to be careful. The older, more experienced
cotton trompers would make sure we didnt do any back flips close to
the support poles. After a while, you just knew the poles were in the
middle of the trailer and to do the flips off the ends toward the middle of
the trailer.
As it got later, my dad would load us back up in the car and we
would make the short drive home. Once there, we would have to strip
down and take a bath in order to get all the dust and grit out of our hair
before jumping into bed. It was good; life was simple and
uncomplicated; at least for a kid.
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I understand now that mom and dad had struggles and worries just
like all families do. Im sure there was always something going on.
But, when I was a kid, I never worried with those issues nor did mom or
dad make those issues known to me or my brother.
Sure, as we got older, we were more aware of those times that test
families, but as we were growing up, mom and dad made sure that kind
of stuff stayed between them. Our job was to be a kid; and we were
good at it. Mom and Dad never seemed to miss an opportunity to let us
experience those things that made being a kid in the country so
enjoyable.
There are those memories, like the cotton trailers, where I can look
back in my mind and pull out certain sites and smell and get flashes and
scenes from those days. Still today, while standing in my garden after a
rain, I can smell the dust and the memories of those dirt roads come
rushing back.
As I drive down those roads from time to time, some things have
changed and others have not. Like I said earlier, theres not as many
trees along the ditch bank as there once were. Buffalo Ditch doesnt
flow like it once did and the wood bridge has been replace with a
concrete one.
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However, the killdeer still cry and the gravel roads still sound the
same under my car. The summertime locusts still get so loud you cant
hear yourself think and the pickers still pick late into the night during
harvest time. Some things, I hope, never change.
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Christmas Morning
There were some events as a kid that made for sleepless nights.
One of those times was Christmas Eve. I know that it was hard on mom
and dad, but it seemed like every Christmas was better than the one
before. My dad would always have to give instructions on the correct
way to lay the silver tinsel on the tree. No Clumps Now! or Get two
or three strands and just lay it on the tree. There were some things that
just had to be done right and the tinsel on the tree was one of them.
Our living room was a rectangle with the front door at one end.
The TV was to the right and along the wall to the left was mom and
dads room. At the end of the same wall was the door to mine and my
brothers room. We had an awesome gas stove that sat on the wall in
the back of the living room before entering the kitchen.
There were the Throwers and the Layers. The throwers
were those that liked to get a hand full of tinsel and just fling it into the
air and let it fall on the tree like snow. The layers were thoselike my
dad; three strands and no more laid properly and evenly on each branch.Each could not stand the others method. This became the talk in our car
ride after coming from a home that had tinsel improperly positioned on
the tree.
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I remember on cold days before I would put my pants on, I would
lay them across the top of the big metal stove and warm them up a little.
At night that stove gave off a warm comforting glow that shimmered in
our room when we left the door open.
In the opposite corner of the stove was our Christmas tree.
Between the stove and the tree was the entrance to our kitchen and our
bookcase with our brown covered gold embossed full set of
Encyclopedia Britannica which were enshrined behind a glass door case.
We would always turn the Christmas tree lights off before going to
bed EXCEPT for one night a year; Christmas Eve. That night, we left
them on so Santa wouldnt trip on anything. To a couple of little boys,
that tree was packed with presents. Little rips in the corners of wrapped
presents were examined to the Nthdegree for some sort of clue as to
the contents. Boxes were shook and imaginations went wild.
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I remember one Christmas Eve, my brother and I wrote Santa a
thank you note and left milk and cookies out on the corner of the book
case just as we always did. We went to bed early that night and I
remember dozing off to the glow of the Christmas lights and the
flickering radiance of that gas stove. The only sound in the house was a
faint hissing sound made by the gas stove.
We never went to sleep soundly and on that particular night, I was
unusually thirsty went to the kitchen for water. I walked out my
bedroom door and into the living room. No Santa yet. I got my water
and went back to bed. A couple of hours later, I had to go the bathroom
(thats my story and Im sticking to it!). I did as I had always done
before. I got up, made my way out into the living room, and WOW!!!
There were presents laid all over the couch and a brand new air hockey
table sitting right where our coffee table used to be.
I looked over at the milk and cookies my brother and I left out
before we went to bed and believe it or not -- The milk was almost gone
and the cookies were just crumbs on the plate just as they always were.
Our note was gone but another was left in its place. It said, Thank you
so much for the milk and cookies. I loved them, Santa.
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It was 3:00 a.m. and I couldnt control myself. There was no way I
was going back to sleep now. I quietly went back to the bedroom and
woke my brother telling him that Santa had come. He sprang out of bed
and was just as amazed as I was.
We ran into mom and dads room and shook them until they woke.
They acted as if they had not been asleep very long. I wonder why?
Mom and dad never told us that it was too early to get up. They never
told us to go back to bed and wait for morning. SHOOT! IT WAS
MORNING!!
Mom would act surprised and immediately get up and start making
hot cocoa. They wouldnt let us open presents until everyone was in the
room and mom had declared, Ok! We can start Christmas. At that
point, paper and bows would start flying. We would grab a present and
see who it was for then call out their name. Mom would be in her robe
and dad would be in his chair with his tee shirt on. The house was filled
with laughter, hugs, kisses, and surprises. Mom would always kiss me
on the cheek and do that little giggle she does and say Youre
welcome and give me that little mmmmm as she kissed me on the
cheek.
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We have twin boys and even today, when they run up to my mom
and dad for hugs and kisses I can see the smile on their faces, see mom
squint her eyes, and hear that little giggle. I am reminded that what I tell
my kids was true for me as well. No matter where they go or how old
they areno matter what they do or sayThey will always and forever
be --- my little boys. Mom and dad never put it to me like that, but I was
assured of it with every hug and every kiss; with every word of
encouragement; and with every moment of discipline. Thats the way it
should be; and thats the way it was.
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My Baptism
New Harmony Missionary Baptist Church was a small country
church a couple of miles from where we lived on the Wildys farm. It
had about seven or so pews on each side with an aisle down the middle.
The membership was mostly relatives of the Longs(my family) and the
Chipmans. We had about 30 or so that would come regular and fewer
than that on Sunday night.
Brother Harvey was our pastor. He was a good man and grew up in
the country just like we all did so he knew the hardship and struggles
that would come up from time to time. He was a bigger man and would
always wear a suit and jacket. Instead of saying, Uh in between
words and phrases like some people do, he would say, Aer-ah.
Actually he said that a lot! But we didnt mind that was just him.
I cant remember the actual night I walked the aisle at New
Harmony Baptist Church and told Brother Harvey that I wanted to be
saved. I was so little my feet dangled off the pew. I wasnt old enough
to sit away from mom and dad yet so I sat between them most of the
time.
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When the message was over, as always, Brother Harvey would
stand in front of the altar with his Bible in one hand and his other arm
held out, asking people to come. I look up at mom and dad and pulled
them down to me and whispered to them that I wanted to go. I dont
think they believed me at first or maybe thought I wanted to go to the
bathroom or something. I tugged on their shirt and said I want to go
down there and be saved. I remember tears in moms eye as we walked
down that aisle.
New Harmony wasnt big enough to have a baptistry of itsown so
from time to time we would use Browns Chapels baptistry. I
remember the Sunday afternoon I was baptized. It was a fall day. I
know that because when I got out of the car the wind was blowing the
fallen leaves from the big leaf barren oak tree in front of the church.
It was afternoon because we had to get in and out before Sunday
night service started. It was the first time I had been in a church that
big. It could have held 200 or so people. That was pretty big for a small
town like Manila. I remember Doris Bandy was there. She was my best
friend Miles mother. There were a lot of people from our church and
other members of my family there as well.
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I can still remember Brother Harvey standing in that water with
me, putting that white handkerchief over my mouth and nose, and then
taking me under. When I came up, I looked out across that room and
saw smiling faces and they were all clapping.
I was only about eight or so and thought that was really cool. I
cant remember a lot about who all was there or the actual day. I can
remember the warm glow of sanctuary and how my life would change
after this event.
Its times like these that are markers along our way. They give us
points of reference in our lives. Did this or that happen before I was
saved or after? Or that was about the time that so and so was born .
These are the events that change our lives and help define it. All of us
have them even if we dont realize it. Some of these events are good
and some are marked with tragedy such as the death of a loved one or
the loss of a job. Good or bad; these times are branded in our mind and
memories. They influence how we do the things we do. They can
motivate us, inspire us, and be the catalyst for change in our attitudes
and actions.
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Sometimes all it takes is a familiar sight, sound, or smell, and all
the emotions and memories come flooding through our mind like a
tsunami. This tidal wave of feelings often gives no sign of its coming.
There is not a flashing sign that says, Warning Familiar Smell
Ahead. It is no respecter of reaction; it doesntreally care whether or
not these feelings bring back happy memories or feelings that will cause
great emotional distress.
The question is not if these events will occur or if they will
motivate or change us, but how will they affect us. Thats where
character comes in. My belief in Christ and the change He has made in
my life has produced, and is still producing, a character marked by love
and peace. Sure tragic events occur and they hurt. Events happen that I
wish would not.
At the same time, the lens with which I view these circumstances
and endure those tragic events allows me to let go and not internalize
them. My faith tells me that God is in control and His plans for me are
yes and amen. This lens projects the words, This world is not my
home. I can rest in the knowledge that some day, I will leave this
place and will find myself in my real home.
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So what are we to do? I believe we need to purposefully, and with
great resolve, make sure that we take every opportunity to breathe in
lifes moments that give us themost joy and contentment. It is true that
traumatic events will erect these monuments in our mind and there is
little we can do about those.
At the same time, we cannot allow monuments of tragedy to be
built on our toes, preventing us from moving forward! Their purpose is
not to promote bitterness or kindle hatred toward another. Their
purpose, as I see it, is to help us realize that with every tragedy, with
ever painful event, God is there and working all things for good; even if
we dont understand how.
We can also take charge of making sure the proportion of good
memories to bad is one that is skewed to the good. When we purpose
within our self to look within the mundane and make those moments that
were once overlooked, moments of sentimental memory, we skew the
good monument construction to our favor. We then begin to erect
multitudes of peaceful, joyous monuments to every bad one that we
might have.
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Snow Days
Snow days were the best. It hasnt changed much from when I was
a child. My twins, to this day, look to see if their school has decided to
cancel due to snow. The forecast can only contain the slightest chance
of snow and they start getting excited. THEN, if it actually does begin
to snow, this is when they really kick it into gear. They become
investigators extraordinaire. Websites are scoured as are weather reports;
the boys go to their schools webpage and look for any indication that
school will be out. All of a sudden, a report of snowfall becomes a
chance for a blizzard.
Now, when I was a child, my ability to track reports and get Intel
was limited to the local TV station, KAIT 8, as they would scroll the
school closings along the bottom of the screen. As the names of the
schools would slowly roll like a ticker tape across the bottom of our TV
screen, anticipation would cause my heart to pound as the names would
quickly start to appear in alphabetical order. Leachville was in the
middle of the pack so if the weather was bad, it took a while for our
name to appear. As the Ls would come and go, I was either jumping
up and down with joy or disappointed that other schools were out and
we were not.
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There was a time that is etched in my memory of a December
snow that started just about sundown and lasted through the night. At
that time, we had moved from the country into the sprawling
metropoliswhich is Leachville, Arkansas. Leachville is a small town
in North East Arkansas with a population at that time of 1,500 (I think
that included the cats and dogs). I used to say the town was so small that
Welcome To and Come Back Soon was on the same sign.
Leachville was so small it didnt have one single traffic light in the
entire town. We DID however, have a single screen movie theater, and
a couple of places to eat. Just like a lot of small towns in Arkansas, the
primary fall sport was basketball and the summers were filled with
baseball and softball on the two ball fields kept up by the city. Everyone
knew everyone as well as their business so news, good and bad, traveled
fast.
Our house was situated one block from the gym and in front of the
towns cemetery. We had a nice house. It wasnt that big but it was big
enough and bigger than the one we had in the country. AND - we had a
real street light located across the narrow paved road that lit up our chat
driveway and front yard.
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Our backyard had a homemade basketball goal that my dad had put
up for us, an old storage building, a couple of fruit trees, storm cellar,
and a porch swing. The inside of the house was normal. The living
room was rectangular and had a front door on one end and a big draped
picture window situated over our brown plaid couch. From the couch,
we could look right into the dining area and into the den through the
dining room.
On this particular night, there was no basketball game to go to or
no other activity on the agenda. Mom was cooking supper like she
always did and I cant remember if dad had made it home from work or
not nor can I recollect where my younger brother was. I do remember
that my attention was fixated on what was going on outside.
As I walked into the living room, I noticed that it was snowing
outside. I jumped on the couch and pulled the sheer drapes back and oh
it was cool. The snow flakes were as big as quarters and they were
coming down hard. I remember putting my face so close to the glass
that I would fog up the window. (Of course, after that came all the funny
faces and other drawings kids do on fogged up windows).
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I remember the glow of our brown gas heater and the faint hissing
sound it made as it heated up our living room. The TV was on, but I had
all but blocked it out. I was almost in a trance watching the snow fall in
the light of the street lamp. Our yard quickly became blanketed with
new fallen snow. It was so peaceful.
I quickly got on my boots and jacket and stood in our carport with
the light off. You could taste the cold air blowing. The night was so
quiet that I could hear the wind in the barren trees as the snow attached
itself to the branches. You see, in Leachville, when the sun goes down
and its around supper time, theres not much going on down on Ada
street.
I stood there and just looked at the quietness of the night. There
were no video games to distract me or anything else demanding my
attention. It was just me, the security of my home and family, the
darkness, and the night snow. Thats all thats all there needed to be.
I dont really know why that memory causes a tear to come to my
eye. Its not joy or pain. I guess I would have to say that I remember
the innocence and wonder of the simple things. I look back into my
memories and even after close to 40 years, that night is just as vivid to
me as if it happened yesterday.
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There was not much to it. I was standing outside in our carport
watching it snow. The whole event probably lasted no more than 15
minutes. But, within those few minutes, lies a moment in time that has,
for some reason, been etched in my memory. It is a monument that I
enjoy returning to and contemplating. When I look at it now, I dont
feel an overwhelming sense of joy or sorrow; pain or sadness. I just feel
--- as ease. And that is good.
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Motorcycles and Evergreen Bushes
It was a toss-up; a motorcycle or basketball camp. I really wanted
to go to basketball camp but I really wanted a motorcycle as well. It was
my birthday and mom and dad wanted to do something special that year.
I wanted a Honda XR-80. Yes, a motorcycle. When mom and dad
brought it home, I was truly beside myself. It was the most awesome
thing I was ever given as a kid. It was a dirt bike with knobby tires and
man, could it run!
I would ride that thing everywhere! One day, I was going to my
little league baseball game at the ball fields just one block from my
house. As a matter of fact, I could stand in my front yard in the summer
and hear the crowd in the stands when there were tournaments going on.
I had one obstacle between my house and my destination; the bulldogs at
the neighbors house on the corner of my street. It was right before I
had to turn left into the parking lot of the gym that led to the ball field
entrances.
I knew they were there. I just didnt know from where in the yard
they would jump me. I had a plan. When they came out after me, and if
I had to, I would cut beside the gym then cross the road into the
elementary school play yard. From there, I could out run the dogs!
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I started on my way. Just as I turned the corner, here they came.
Their ugly pug faces just gnarled up barking and nipping at my legs. I
started kicking at the dogs to get them away from me. I cut beside the
gym on my way to the safety of the playground. As I crossed the road
in front of the gym, BAM!!!
The next thing I knew I was lying in the huge evergreen bushes on
the corner of the elementary school play yard. I had been hit by a truck
and knocked off my motorcycle. It was summer time and there was
normally no one around the gym at that time of the day. I was struck by
one of my best friends dad. I felt so bad for him. Luckily he was not
going very fast or it could have been worse.
The girls coach was at the gym and came running out to help me.
They pulled me out of the bushes and on to the road. Yes onto the hot
asphalt. I dont know why they didnt put me on the grass. Anyway,
they took my helmet off and found several deep gashes in it. Had I not
been wearing my helmet, I wouldve had injuries far worse.
I dont know who it was that went to get mom, but when she got
there she just laid over me and cried. I remember coming in and out of
consciousness saying, mom, please get off me, I cant breathe. She
didnt of course and I would just go back out of consciousness.
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The nearest hospital was Jonesboro and with it, the nearest
ambulance service. So my buddys mother, Frankie, loaded me up in the
back of her Ford Escort wagon and off we went to Jonesboro Methodist
Hospital. As they were loading me up, another of my friends told me he
had taken my motorcycle and walked it home for me. They had put the
back seats down in the Escort wagon and loaded me up. I remember
waking to the sound of that little horn just honking. I kept asking, Am I
in heaven?Then, I would pass out again.
The next thing I remember, I woke up in the hospital room later
that night. Tim Bassing was my baseball coach and the preacher at the
local Church of Christ. He brought me the game ball with everyones
signature on it and a big GET WELL SOON poster with signatures. It
was great. They showed me my motorcycle helmet, my pants, and my
shoes. It was worse than I thought, but not as bad as it could have been.
Luckily, I only had a concussion, some bruised ribs, and a broken
leg. Other than that, all was well. I went home the next day and
couldnt move much. I would spend the rest of my summer break
healing. As time went on, I was able to get around pretty good using my
crutches. I could still move faster using my crutches than most of the
smaller kids could run. I would race them every chance I could get!
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I remember the first time I got chiggers in my cast. Even though I
had broken my left leg, I could still ride the motorcycle. It was sort of
bent in the middle but still ran well. I had to peel a bit of the cast off my
toes to change gears but a boy had to do what a boy had to do. I found
my way to Buffalo ditch to fish one afternoon when all of a sudden it
started pouring down rain. I had to get under the bridge until the rain
stopped. While under the bridge, I had backed up into the weeds under
the bridge. It was there that I got all the chiggers. Those little things
that bury up under your skin and itch like crazy. I did everything to stop
the itching. I used a ruler or a clothes hanger; anything that I could
shove into my cast to scratch with.
All was going good until I went back to the orthopedic that set my
leg. He took X-Rays to see how I was healing and said he was going to
take the cast off and put on a new one. The old one was put on when my
leg was still swollen so, as the swelling went down, the cast got looser
on my leg to the point that I could almost pull the thing off.
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It was a mixed blessing. I got the cast off and was able to look at
my leg for the first time since the accident. The cuts were healing but
still looked really bad and my leg was eaten up with chiggers. While I
had the cast off, he medicated my chiggers and said he was going to put
on a new kind of cast. This one would be fiberglass! I could actually go
swimming in this cast then I would dry it out with a hair dryer after I got
out of the water. It was going to be awesome except for one thing.
The X-Rays showed that when the doctor set my leg, it was not set
properly and the bones were offset. The doctor said that it might be
alright but I would probably be bow-legged or the bone might not be as
strong. So, they decided to reset my leg. What did that mean?
They first gave me the anesthesia originally given to me at the
hospital to knock me out. However, when the time came to re-break my
leg, I did not have the same reaction to the medication as I did at the
hospital. I was still conscious, a bit groggy, but still conscious. I
remember it like it was yesterday.
The walls were brown paneling and the table sat just to the left of
the door. The doctor came in and put a triangle piece of foam under my
leg and told me to hold on to the table. He turned his hands back and
forth over my leg like someone giving an Indian sunburn (if you dont
know just look it up). Then, without notice, he snapped my leg. I yelled
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as loud as I could. Mom was in the waiting room and I knew she could
hear me. The pain was to the point it almost made me pass out. The last
thing I remember before going to sleep was the doctor telling my mother
that she didnt have to worry about me cursing or using bad language
because if I did, I would have been cursing then.
The only good thing about the whole event at the time was that
they replaced my plaster cast with a new fiberglass one. This would
allow me to go swimming and have a bit more activity during the
summer. Yes, they set my leg the way it should have been in the
beginning, but to me, the best thing about the ordeal was my new cast.
I remember after a couple of weeks, I found myself wanting to get
back on my motorcycle. I had to walk on crutches down to the softball
fields and virtually everywhere I went. That was getting old. So, after
some persuasion, I talked my parents into allowing me back on my
motorcycle. That Honda was tough as nails. We didntget the frame
straightened so it looked like it was constantly turning as I was going
down the road. The impact hit square in the middle of the bike so it sort
of turned it into a slight V shape. I didnt care. The thing still ran good
and it got me where I needed to go. There was one problem though. I
couldnt get my toes under the shifter to change gearswith the new cast.
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So, I went to the kitchen and got one of moms steak knives and
chiseled away the fiberglass cast so my toes could get under the shifter.
This worked like a charm! I was mobile again and it felt good to get
back on the motorcycle.
Toward the time when the cast was to come off, I was allowed to
walk without crutches. Soon after, I remember one of friends asked if I
could go swimming at their house. They had an in-ground pool and boy,
was it hot outside! Many of my friends from school were going to be
there and I really wanted to go. Mom said I could go so off I went on
my bike. When I got there, everyone was wondering how I was going to
stay afloat with that cast. I really didnt know either, but there was
nothing on the planet that could keep me out of the water.
I eased into the pool and the bubbles started. After a few seconds,
the cast was waterlogged and it felt so good. About 30 minutes went by
and I was feeling pretty comfortable with getting around with the soaked
cast I thought, I bet I could really spring high off the diving board with
all that water in my cast. I made my way to the board and carefully
walked to the end making sure I wouldnt slip. Then, I pushed down on
the board and it shot me up in the air. When I came down on the board I
knew I was going to go high. I could feel the weight of the drenched
cast doing what I thought it would do. The board bent under the weight
of my body and the water soaked cast; then it sprang me up and off the
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board and up in the air. I didnt do any tricks that first time because it
sort of scared me at first because I had never been catapulted up that
high before. I was a ball player and rather lean for my age, but that cast
helped to get me higher than I had ever been before.
Other times come to mind about that summer. I remember
frequent visits from friends, my Aunt Peggy coming over and rubbing
my toes, and those people who bought pieces of my cast! I didnt get
rich, but I did make 25 cents per piece. The steak knife worked well. I
started cutting off hunks of cast from the top for people that wanted it.
Of course all my friends signed it, drew pictures on it, and made it into a
piece of art. It was fun and I didnt care.
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Leachvilles Gym
As I said before, Leachville was a small town but our gym was the
best in the area. It was a large brick gym with solid polyurethaned pine
bleachers on both sides. The gym had a great concession area, and nice
dressing rooms. On Tuesday and Friday nights that place would be
hoppin! There was not much else to do in Leachville so the basketball
games were huge events.
I got my first chance to play basketball when I was still living in
the country and in the 4th
grade. The bus driver, Mr. Adams, would pick
me up for school every day. One morning, as I got on the bus, he called
out to me. Long! I made my way up to the front of the bus from myseat that I normally sat in and said, Yes, sir?he said, Do you want
to play basketball?I answered, yesbut I have to ask my mom. He
then told me to be at the gym on Saturday morning. From that point on,
I never missed a game.
My dad put up a goal in our backyard and I shot until I wore the
grass out from around the goal. I was a starter my 5th
grade year and 6th
.
When I entered into Jr. High I started every year from the 8th
grade on.
Basketball was my sport and I practiced at it as much as I could.
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My dad coached the 4th
and 5th
grade girls teams my 5th
and 6th
grade school years. Their games were on Saturday mornings so I would
go down to the gym and either help referee, keep books, or something
like that; anything to be in the gym. My dad had a key so I would go
down there and shoot for hours at a time. In the summer, the coach
wasnt allowed to have organized practices but he could open the gym
up for those who wanted to just play around. I would be down there
every time the doors were open.
As I got older, there were adults who would open up the gym from
time to time and play on Sunday afternoons. I was fortunate enough to
get called on to play in these games from time to time. Most were adults
or senior high players. I felt really big and sometimes intimidated
getting out on the floor with those guys. But, I think it actually made me
a better player, and in Leachville, if you played ball, everyone knew
you.
Even when I went to college at ASU, I still found my way back to
the gym on Friday nights to watch the games. But as time went on, my
visits were less frequent. I remember one time in the late summer, I was
coming home to see mom and dad and the gym was open. It was right
before school started and they were stripping the court and putting on
new sealant. I loved that smell. I had smelled it several times in the past
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and it would actually make me upset when they did it because they
wouldnt let us on the floor for several days until it dried. But this time;
it was different.
I walked in and the fans were blowing
on the floor, the two big gym doors
were open, and the wood just shone
like glass. I closed my eyes and took
in a deep breath. It was awesome. I
looked up at the goals and just spent some time walking around looking
at the place and how it had changed. Of course, the gym wasnt as big
as I had remembered and the bleachers sure werent as tall as they were
when we were running them in practice.
At the same time, all that didnt seem to matter. I picked up aball
from the ball cage and bounced it once. I can still hear the echo the ball
makes in an empty gym and the feel of the slightly worn leather of one
that had been used for a season or two. Those were better than the brand
new balls. The new ones were slick and a player couldnt grip them as
well.
All the games and all the nights that gym was filled with people
just came rushing back to my memory. The sound of the clock going
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off, all the squeaks of the shoes, and the sounds of the whistle were all
brought back to my mind.
I remember one instance that returns to me each and every time I
think about my old gym in Leachville. We were playing a local team in
the last tournament of the year. We had played hard and the game was
drawing to the end and the other team was up by one. The gym was full
and the crowd was on their feet. The clock was winding down the last
30 seconds of the last quarter. For one of the teams, it was the last game
of the tournament. The winner would advance and the loser would go
home. Our coach called the play; the clocked clicked down, I rolled
from the wing position to the top of the key; the clock was down to 2
seconds and I shot.
I wish I could say I made the shot and was a local legend from that
point on. I wish I could tell you that they heaved me up on their
shoulders as I threw my arms up in the air. I wish I could have told you
that I heard the crowd chant my name --- But I cant. I missed the shot.
A loud, Awwww!! was heard and cheers from the visitorsside of
the gym roared. Our teammates walked off the floor with heads down
and I dropped to the floor with my head between my knees. How could
I have missed that shot? I had made a gazillion of those from the same
place on that same floor. I had even practiced that very sequence a
million times. I would count down in my mind to 10 seconds then
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practice shooting under that pressure; but yet, on that particular Friday
night, I missed that particular shot.
As the crowd was coming down out of the stands and the people
were standing seemingly all around me; talking and moving from one
place to another; I just sat there. When I finally looked up, I saw my dad
coming down from the stands as fast as he could.
He hit the floor, hurried over to me and put his arm around me and
we just sat there for what seemed like hours but in reality it was only 15
seconds or so. I composed myself and stood up. I cant remember what
he said to me or if he said anything at all. All I knew was my dad was
there standing beside me like he always did. Even today, as I am
writing this down, I am sniffling a bit and tears are welling up in my
eyes; not because I missed the shot, but because of my dad who ran from
the stands and stood with me, his son, during a time of failure.
Its easy to stand by someone in their time of triumph and victory.
But, sometimes, people arent as quick to come to your side in times of
failure. Sure, I got plenty of one tappers on the shoulder as people
would go by, but none of them mattered as much as when my dad was
beside me- especially at that time. It was like he was almost protecting
me --- from what? I dont even know. I really didnt care. He was there,
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and that was all that matteredjust like he always was and still is to this
day.
That moment will forever be ingrained in my memory. It is a
moment where I had a glimpse of what it meant to be a dad. I know
now because I am a dad to two boys. A dad will stand eagerly on the
sideline and see his sons compete or participate in an event. In that time,
I cannot go out and help, I cant do anything but cheer them on and
watch as they succeed or fail. Sometimes, success and failure happen in
the same event. The key is to be there cheering them on and be there
when its over to either share in their victory or share in their defeat.
Ive come to realize that I canhandle defeat better when it happens
to me rather than when it happens to my boys or my wife. Although I
know defeat is a part of playing the game of life in general, and that
character grows more in times of failure than in success, it hurts to see
my boys or my wife struggle or to lose. Yet, without struggle, success
seems empty and worthless.
However, in those times, I do as my dad did; I stand tall beside
them and encourage them to lift up their heads and compete again. You
see, although my dad was there beside me when I failed, he didnt allow
me to stay on the ground. He pulled me up, wiped me off, and expected
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me to play again. He held his head up high and I did the same. I had
nothing to be ashamed of. I played hard and played well.
I went on to average double figures in points and multiple
rebounds and assist the following seasons. My mom and dad were there
in the stands at every ball game and watched every minute. From time
to time, my dad could get a bit excited and explain to the officials how
they could improve their game (thats putting it mildly) but mom was
always there poking him in the side and controlling his commentary.
He still does that even when we go to ASU basketball games,
football games, or any sporting event for that matter and I just sit there,
listen, and remember. I see my dad in my actions as my boys engage in
anything competitive. I catch myself coaching them from the
sidelines, helping during practice, and evaluating everything. One thing
is for sure, my boys know Im there and they know that no matter what,
when its over, I will be standing there beside them with my head held
high ---- just like my dad was for me.
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Grandma and Grandpa Down The Hills
I was fortunate to have known my grandparents well before they
passed. My moms mother and step father lived in Jonesboro which was
only about 30 minutes from Leachville and where I would eventually go
to college. My dads family lived in Harrison, Arkansas. We didnt go
see them as much, but the times we did were filled with all kinds of fun
and memorable experiences.
There are three distinct memory classifications (as I will call them)
of my moms parents: their house and the part of town they lived in,
their relationship to me as grandparents, and the day they were quickly
and unexpectedly taken from us.
They lived in a small house in an older part of town. But that
didnt matter to me. We would all pile up in the car and take off to
Jonesboro to see Grandma and Grandpa down the hills. You see,
Harrison is up in the Ozarks of Arkansas so my brother and I
distinguished the two sets of grandparents by the terrain they lived in. I
know it would have been easier just to have different terms of
endearment for each set, but to a child who named every one of his dogs
Sally this made more sense. (Thatsis a story for another day).
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I remember pulling up in the ten feet or so of chat driveway and
seeing their vehicle in the carport. We would jump out of the car and
run up to the front door and knock. Sometimes they were in the house,
but most times they were outside in the backyard in the swing or in their
garden. All I know is that when we walked in their front door, we were
walking right into the kitchen and the first thing to our right was the
table.
Grandma would always have a white linen cloth covering the table
and another covering any left over homemade biscuits or fried pies she
had made. They were awesome; especially with the jelly she would
make.
Raymond was not my moms real dad but he was the only grandpa
down the hillsmy brother and I knew. He was a big man with really
big hands. He would always call us over and have us sit by him. He
always had a story to tell or some secret to share. We knew what he
was up to though. He would get us over there then take those big hands
of his and wrap them around our leg right above the knee. Oh that
would tickle and once he got a grip; there was no getting loose. It was
great! It would take your breath away --- but great all the same.
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Grandma was a short and spunky woman. I remember one winter
day. They came over to our house about the time of my birthday which
was in January. She wanted to take a picture with me in my basketball
uniform. So I suited up and stood outside in the cold with my grandma
while mom took the picture. After that, we went back in the house and
she gave me my present. It was a diary. She said no one else could read
it but her. I thought it was a bit corny at first, but I still wrote in it from
time to time. As a matter of fact, I still have it today and my boy have
even read those entries.
As time went on, we would see them every so often when we made
it over to Jonesboro or they would come to see us in Leachville. They
were retired and spent a lot of time driving up in the hills. I remember
one afternoon, I was working at the Hays Grocery store as a stocker and
mom and dad came to see me. I think it was a Saturday morning. It was
hot that day and Ken (the assistant manager) came into the store and told
me my parents wanted to see me.
I walked outside and saw mom and dad there. Ken was a nice guy
and walked out there with me. He was standing there smoking his
cigarette ready to make small talk with my parents when they told me
that a drunk driver had swerved over into my grandparents lane as they
topped a hill. They hit head on killing my grandma and grandpa on
impact.
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Kens face was one of shock and he grabbed me by the arm as if to
console me. Mom wasnt taking it too well and all started crying. I
clocked out and went home with my parents.
The rest of the events surrounding that time are a blur. For some
reason, the one thing I have wondered about the most is whether or not
they were actually killed on impact or if they had survived for a time. I
dont know why, but that sticks in my mind. I have played those events
over and over in my mind as if I were in that car with them hundreds of
times, each time the same, except for the ending.
I want to believe they died on impact, but still, for some reason,
other images and scenarios make their way into mind and I have to
shake them away like I am waking from a bad dream. I dont talk about
that time. No one really does in my family. Still yet, those images and
those alternate scenarios still flash back from time to time just like they
are at this moment. All I can do is wonder and hope.
Its funny though. When I remember Grandma and Grandpa, I
remember those Christmas Eve nights when we would receive High
Karate cologne or soap on a rope. We were as excited as we could be. I
remember Grandpa squeezing mine and my brothers knee (and any of
the other grandkids knees he could grab!) I can see his face as he
would tell me story after story.
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I remember him showing me his pocket knife and telling us how
we should always whittle with the blade pointing down and out. I can
still see in my minds eye, looking out into their backyard, my mom and
grandma in that old swing under the mimosa trees just swinging and
talking.
Many times, Grandma would just be talking away, but she would
always be holding moms hand as they talked. Its funny what one
remembers. I can still hear Riceland mill in the distance being just a bit
scared of the deep drainage ditch just beyond their yard.
These were the times with my grandma and grandpa down the hill
that I remember most. These are the images that are ingrained in my
memory. At the same time, these memories come at a cost. I wish I
could remove those images that my mind has concocted of those last
minutes of their lives. Although I was not there, my psyche has painted
these terrible pictures that I have not, to this day, been able to rid myself
of.
I dont know what happened to the drunken guy that topped that
hill on the wrong side of the road. All I know is that he took my
grandma and grandpa away from me and my family all too soon; I
think that guy lived. I really dont know.To be honest with you, I really
dont care what happened to him.
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Grandma and Grandpa Up The Hills
Grandma and Grandpa up the hills were my dads parents . They
lived in Harrison, Arkansas. We didnt get to see them as often as we
would have like because they lived several hours away. The summer
was the best time to visit due to the fact that the winter weather can hit
pretty quickly causing the road to get bad in a hurry. So, when we
could, we went during the summer. Every now and then, I remember
going when it was cold at night, but not too often.
That area of Arkansas is mountainous and really beautiful. Even
though the people there dont warm up to strangers very easily, they are
the salt of the earth. They were hill people to the core. I remember the
excitement when we would finally get off the paved highway and head
up the gravel road to their house which sat nestled on that mountain.
With every curve I would think, This is it! It seemed like we were
driving back in time to a simpler place; a place where the mountain was
just as much a part of your family as your own flesh and blood. I swear
when we came around that last steep curve and I saw their house, it was
like pulling up to the Waltons.
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The house was white clapboard and had a large front porch with
rock supports. The yard was cleared all except a few large trees with a
tire swing attached to one of the large branches. When we pulled into
the yard, the images made my stomach flip! In the yard was an old truck
parked beside a stump of an old tree that had been cut down. From out
of nowhere, their big German Sheppard dog would come up to greet us.
I remember wanting to get out so bad but at the same time, being a bit
scared to get out of car just because, to a 7 or 8 year old, that dog was
big.
As we made our way up the steps and onto the grey painted wood
porch, there were two chairs beside the front screen door; one for
grandma and one for grandpa. Each had Folgers coffee cans sitting
beside them. These, of course, were their tobacco spit cans. Grandma
and Grandpa both chewed tobacco. It wasnt the kind you would find in
the little pouch. This was the twisted kind. It looked sort of like a dead
vine you would pull out of tree and twist up into a 6 or 8 inch rope.
The front door on the porch opened up into the living room. To
the right was a bedroom and through the living room was the dining
room. The kitchen table was big and the room was large. To the right
of the table was a fat black pot bellied wood burning stove. Past the
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stove were two other bedrooms; one of which was where my brother and
I would sleep.
Grandma would either come to meet us or we would find her in the
kitchen past the dining room. She would normally be dressed in a gown
of some kind and house shoes or no shoes at all. She was a small round
woman with black hair and round glasses and she always had a smile on
her face. Grandpa was white haired and didnt get around that well. He
was diabetic. He wore overalls and brown shoes and loved to have us
kids watch as he gave himself his insulin shot every morning. Oh, the
questions he would ask; Have you kids killed any dead snakes lately?
This one was his favorite.
We would go outside and chase the chickens around or just
explore. The barn was a little ways past the backyard. We wouldnt go
back there without someone else with us because a) we were a bit
concerned for snakes, and b) we didnt want to get ticks and chiggers all
over us.
I do remember making our way to the barn down a dirt path that
had been carved out of the tall grass and getting eggs for breakfast; it
was truly amazing; I was a little scared, but excited at the same time.
My brother and I would hunt around for those eggs and then bring them
back up to grandma who cooked them up. Man! Did they taste good!
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I remember afternoons of just sitting on the porch or swinging on
the tire swing. Sometimes my brother and I would walk down the side
yard to the bottom of the hill where there was a stream running off the
mountain. It wasnt a very large stream nor was it deep. The water was
cold and clean though and full of crawdads!
We would tie a string onto a little piece of bacon fat and throw it
across to the other side of the stream. Then, slowly, we would pull the
bacon across the bottom back to us. As the bacon was pulled across the
bottom of the stream, the crawdads would latch onto the bacon. My
brother and I would just haul them up. Sometimes, we would forget the
bacon and just wade out into the water lifting up rocks snatching them as
they would try to get away.
Watercress grew around the edges of the shallow water. My
brother and I would sometimes be sent down to the stream to pick some
to eat. I remember the wind blowing in the huge trees as we would
make our way down the hill. I also remember that the closer we would
get to that stream, the cooler it would get.
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Grandma would fry bacon for breakfast and either save the grease
to heat and use later, or she would take some of that watercress and pour
the hot bacon grease on it and eat it. I remember the crackling sound
that watercress would make as that hot bacon grease would hit it. It
smelled so good, but I just couldnt bring myself to try it. I didnt mind
eating the watercress, but when it had bacon grease as the dressing, it
was just too much for me.
At night, the family would get together and we would sit around
and talk. The TV hardly ever came on. My dads sisters, Jenny and
Ruby, would come over to visit. Ruby was short, loud, strong, and a bit
on the adventurous side. Jenny was quieter, reserved, and looked
more like grandma. She was married to a fellow named Doyle. He was
even quieter than Jenny but he could play a guitar.
I remember one night he came over and brought his old guitar and
amplifier with him. Im not for sure, but for some reason I think he
might have built that amp himself. All I can remember is sitting there
and listening to him play and thinking, Man, I want to play like that.
He and my dad would sit and play for hours and we would just listen and
sing.
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When it came time for bed, my brother and I would make our way
through the dining room, past the big kettle stove and into our bedroom.
The bed was HUGE!! (at least to us) The mattresses were stuffed with
some kind of bird down. They were thick and cushy. Depending on
how cold it was going to get at night, grandma would always have
several homemade quilts ready to put over us.
I tell you the truth, I remember my brother and I standing at the
foot of the bed and falling backwards into the mattress and just burying
up like we have fallen into snow. Then mom would cover us up with the
blankets and there was how we laid. There was no moving once
embedded in the mattress then covered with the weight of several heavy
quilts.
It would start off a little warm in the house due to the fact that the
only heat was coming from the big wood stove in the dining room. It
was centrally located in the house for that particular reason. I was
always told never to touch the stove because it was hot. There was no
way of telling just how hot it was so we just stayed away from it all
together.
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As the night went on and the wood burned down, the house would
gradually get a little cooler. The only reason I know is because my face
was the only thing out from under the covers. The rest of me was nice
and toasty.
When morning came, my brother and I would get up and meet the
rest of the family who was already up and sitting around the table
drinking coffee and waiting on the biscuits and gravy; not to mention the
sausage, bacon and eggs. The smell would fill the house! Before
breakfast, I liked to go outside and feel the cool morning air and walk
around back and watch the chickens scratch around in the dirt. Then
mom would come out on the porch and let us know that grandpa was
about ready to take his shot. We would RUN in the house and pull up a
chair.
Grandpa would roll up the pant leg of his overalls above his knees,
look at us and say, I can give you a shottoo if you want? NO! thats
alright we would respond Are you sure? If you just roll up your
pants Ill give ya one. He would say.After several denials he would
say, Well alright then.. He would take the small brown bottle, stick
the needle in, and draw out the clear liquid. We were in amazed! He
would then put the syringe down, pick up a cotton swab with rubbing
alcohol then rub a tiny place on the inside of his thigh. Taking the
needle, he would bury the needle in his leg pushing the insulin into his
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body. It would never fail. My brother and I would look at each other
and say, cool! By the time itwas over, breakfast was ready and it was
so good.
I cant really say what we did most of the day other than play
outside on the tire swing or sit on the big front porch swing. Life just
sort of slowed down and it was ok just to be with family. We didnt
have to be doing anything or planning to go anywhere. It was like
looking at your day planner and seeing the word, nothing on it. Ive
come to realize that having those nothingtimes regularly in our life is
more productive than filling up our days with no rest between activities.
Its amazing how therapeutic sitting outside on a big front porch is,
being lulled into a day dream by the constant creaking of the swing
chains as they rubbed against the eye hooks in the ceiling can be; or how
rejuvenating a slow walk around the yard stopping to look closely at the
rose bushes blooming can be; or just thinking about nothing and
everything at the same time. As I write about this, I find myself being a
bit startled at the proposition that I have lost that ability. Its one of
those gifts that are always present and available to partake of at any
time, but hardly ever utilized. Its a gift worth exercising.
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I can see this from time to time in my sons. Greyson, for instance,
will be sitting in the car being quite then all of a sudden just giggle. I
ask him what he was thinking about and he will tell me then just start
laughing. At night, before bed, I always make it a point to ask them
what their favorite part of the day was. There have been many times
when we will be talking and they will ask questions that seem to be out
of the blue. When I ask them where that question came from they would
just sa