Author: thegraymaniac

A Tribute to Life.

Walking into the warm westward blowing wind this afternoon early, with the sun breaking through the thick gray clouds, I have never felt more alive. Yet I thought if I could let my soul slip away, in that one tiny silver of a sublime moment, I might do it.

But I still have much to do, and many to hold. I still can give of myself without regret, so I will wait for that one day in the future when the same wind blows and the sun shines bright and I am truly ready to go.

I’ve known some honorable people in my life. Not as many as one might think. Many people have some honor, but not many have great honor.

When an honorable person speaks, they speak the truth, even when what they say is not popular. They do this while trying to be kind.

An honorable person is also loyal, even when they are tempted by money or other types of personal rewards, to be disloyal. Honor trumps dishonesty.

An honorable person has empathy for others, even if they are an opponent, or someone with whom they have little in common. No one with true honor thinks that anyone is beneath them because of any physical, cultural, financial, or religious differences.

A person with honor will give of themselves or their resources with no expectations of receiving anything in return. Many times they give anonymously.

An honorable person will stand up for what they think is right, but will listen openly to the opinions of others, and may be convinced to change their mind, if enough good evidence is presented. Being honorable does not mean being intractable.

A truly honorable person will be able to forgive others for almost anything, while seeking forgiveness when they have wronged others. Being strong does not preclude forgiveness or contrition.

It has been said that the “knights of old” were the most honorable of men. While there are still “knights” of honor in our day and age, they are few and far between, and getting even more rare with every passing day.

I still watch Survivor, and tonight was a wacky episode. Young all “twenty something” group called the “beauty” group won the prize challenge which was a food reward of three laying hens and a big rooster. They take them back to camp in a custom coop designed for the lain eggs to roll out a chute in front. Discussion starts: “How do we get eggs?” Says one girl…”the rooster has to do something right?” Another girl…”I’m not sure, does the rooster have to make them have the eggs” Supposed country boy: “No, it’s like you have eggs too, you know.” “Oh, yeah..” say three of the girls and then sit there looking confused. “Can’t believe they didn’t know about eggs.” Says quasi country boy “Everyone knows eggs came first, cause dinosaurs had eggs and they were here a long time before chickens.” He then gets up, grabs one of the LAYING HENS and kills it by pulling it’s head off, even though they have machetes, cause they have been using them to cut coconuts. Rooster still sitting in the cage. Sweat beaded up on his brow cause he knows he dodged a bullet. Maybe they are keeping him to wake up by. Cooked the hen up on sticks stuck in the fire. Beware America, all of those kids are coming back here after the show is over. That is, IF they survive. Sheesh….I’m a little fearful.

A sleep deprived mind is a terrible thing. The neurons don’t fire like they should and sometimes you don’t think “normal” like you should. I think that may end up being the case with me. After all I sleep with this mask contraption strapped to my head that’s supposed to help me sleep better. I look in the mirror sometimes at night after I “suit up” and I remind myself of something from outer space. It’s connected to a machine that blows air through the mask and keeps me “pumped up” at night. It’s a non-snore machine. It’s really kind of weird that anyone could ever think of something like this.

I feel rested though, so what the heck.

They have a saying about drugs that a “Mind on Crack is a terrible thing” I think in my case it’s a “Crack in the Mind is a terrible thing.” My brain is cracked and nobody minds. Weird things come out of my mouth. My body doesn’t do what I ask it. It does what it dang well pleases. Is it age related? I hope not, because I ain’t getting any younger.

I have been thinking about world events, but I really don’t feel like talking about them. Talking about world events is like walking through a pasture full of cow pies blindfolded.

I really don’t feel much like talking about religion or existentialism, either. That’s like walking through a cow pasture full of “pasture pudding” and land mines.

Dang…I don’t know what to talk about.

I got any idea though. I’ll do a post about the things I don’t want to talk about and put it on and don’t tell anybody that’s what it is about until the last line.

That’ll do it.

We are of the earth, no matter your philosophy of how we got here.

We are all creatures of this world.

No matter our skin color or the shape of our eyes, we are creatures of this world.

We are so much like other living things, that it is plain to anyone who will look that our basic blueprint was laid down long ago, in our cells and in our spirit.

We are of this Earth, but our spirit can soar high, if we will only allow it to do so the first time.

High into the pink sunsets we can fly like the eagle or the hawk.

We are every cloud and raindrop which falls and runs to the sea.

We are of the ocean, and every wave which breaks on the sand.

Forever tied to our planet which sustains us, which has sustained us, and which will be here long after us.

This morning should have been Easter. I cannot remember a more beautiful spring morning. This morning should remind us of Christ’s love for us and for all other people. It should remind us through the bright and glorious sunshine, that Christ is the light who came into the world not to condemn the world, but through him to save the world. It should remind us through the gorgeous singing and trilling of the songbirds, that God created a world worthy of our care and nurturing. It should remind us through the blooming and wonder of the superb spring flowers, that through God’s grace and Christ’s sacrifice, that we can all live again if we believe in him. Yes, this morning should have been Easter, but then again I guess any morning can be if your joy is in Christ and your belief is in his defeat of death.

Two people died this past week who were friends of mine, and I didn’t know it in time to go to their funerals…or to the funeral home to honor them.

Mr. E.B. King, Jeff King‘s Dad was a fixture all through my childhood. Jeff and I played a lot of baseball together as kids, and Mr. King was always there to encourage, to help, to coach us, play catch with us…anything he could do to help he always did. I never heard Mr. King ever raise his voice, although he may have…but he seemed a kind and gentle man. The kind of man you look up to as a kid. He was a Navy man, like my Dad was, and I heard him and my Daddy talk about it occasionally. After my ball playing years, I would see Mr. and Mrs. King at Church and they never, ever failed to speak or to smile. They never failed to show joy. Mr. King and I became buddies over 30 years of going to Trade Day together. Can’t count the junk I bought from him that I “needed” At the same time, money could not BUY the good will and friendliness in the conversations we had about everything under the moon. Fifteen or twenty minutes on a Saturday or a Tuesday over all those years. Wonderful person, Mr. E.B., I will surely miss him.

I was thinking while I was out walking today about how I have come through sixty five years to where I am today.

I have had times where I have been mean to people, but I try not to be that way anymore.

I have had times when I said hateful things to people, but I try not to say those things anymore.

I have not loved people in general enough. I have not given enough to those who needed it. I have not consoled those who needed consoling as much as I should have.

I have wasted precious time doing inane things which meant nothing when I could have been doing things to benefit others.

But, in doing…or not doing all or any of these things, I suppose I am walking or was walking literally at the time, in the footsteps of every thinking human being who has ever drawn a breath.

I wonder then, when God made us, and I do think that we were in some sense made, I wonder why we were not made perfectly? Why am I so imperfect? Why is humanity so imperfect?

I walked for five miles and never came up with a really good answer to that question. I don’t think any of us have the answers. I think we all still have many more questions instead.

Certainly there are religious and metaphysical answers, but to seek the answer in human terms only, is very, very hard.

I will think on it again tomorrow if I get to walk around again.

Today has been a day of nostalgic thoughts, and few accomplishments otherwise. As we accumulate more time and more memories, the world itself magically changes around us. Where once existed a world of newness and adventure without cynicism and sarcasm, now exists a world which is a little fuzzy at the edges. Happiness is a daily pursuit and long term plans become a risk. Peace is sought and tranquility of body and mind is accepted with great thankfulness, especially at this time of day when the sun has crossed the sky one more time and I have seen it, and felt it and have been it. I am lucky.

I know my Daddy was a hard working man. I remember being very young, back when we lived over on Simmons street and Daddy would come home from the mill. I rushed to meet him, and most of the days he would grab me up and give me a hug. Some days though, when he had been working right up until the last minute before the whistle blew, he would still have the grease and oil from working on looms on his hands and he had to go clean up before I got my hug.

Mom didn’t like all that mess in her bathroom sink, so Daddy had a little container of kerosine and some soap he kept out next to the back steps, along with some rags with which to wipe his hands. He’d get most of it off his hands, then finish up in the bathroom. I know he was tired, especially on the days he worked over. Still, he always had a little time to play, whether it was throwing a ball around or going out to where the beagles were penned up and letting me play with them a little.

Loom fixers were essential back in the cotton mill in the 1950’s. Good loom fixers, like my Dad were sought after. They moved around from “upkeep to upkeep” inside the weave room, getting the better set of looms to look after as they became more proficient. New fixers got the worst running looms and had to ask for help from the older more experienced fixers sometimes.

I never realized how hard working in that cotton mill could be until after I was sixteen years old. That was the age in which a student could get a summer job in the mill and make themselves some “good” money. A lot better money than caddying up at the golf course, or working bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. So, in the summer of 1967 I got myself a summer job in the mill.

By that time, my Dad had worked his way up to being an Overseer in the mill. He was the “boss” over the second/third shifts in the weave room. My Dad didn’t believe in doing family any favors though. I ended up doing a job called “taking up quills” We’d take a little buggy and go around to every loom and fetch the empty wooden quills on which the filling yarn had been wound. We’d dump the container into which they fell, in our big rolling buggy, and when that buggy was full we’d take it to the “quill machine” It was there that the quills were reprocessed to be sent back up to the spinning room. It was the location of one of the strangest sights I can ever remember.

Me and Kelley ( a teacher at our High School who also had a summer job in the mill) had filled our buggies up to almost overflowing and were bringing them to the machine. The dumping station was a circulating belt which eventually fed into a smaller belt which took the quills upstairs. A lot of times there was a little yarn left on them and the quill machine operator was responsible for getting that yarn off before the quills got to the smaller belt. There had been a large influx of quills and the operator was standing in between the large cirulating belt and the smaller belt buried chest deep in slowly moving wooden quills. With his arms outstreched and pulling the remnants of yarn off of the quills he looked like some strange multicolored ghost with stringlets of light hanging in all directions off on him. He was covered in sweat and it dripped from his face and neck onto the remnant yarn. “Damn” Kelly whispered, “I hope he doesn’t get buried” He didn’t.

There was no air conditioning in that mill back in 1967, just humidity. The more the humidity, the better, because the looms ran better when the humidity was high. They even had “humidity heads” built into the ceiling spewing out moisture into the air. It has hot that summer. Over 100 degrees inside that weave room most days and with that humidity, it was brutal.

I came home most days and just went to bed and slept for 10 hours or so. I didn’t feel much like doing anything else.

I developed a very healthy respect for my Dad, and all of the other men from our community who had been working in that place for most of their lives. They were tough men. Most of them were good men. Many of them, they just don’t make ’em like anymore. My Daddy was one of them, as was many of yours my friends. I met and worked with a lot of them that year and in the subsequent years in which I worked in that cotton mill. I will have to admit that the next summer I asked ol’ Henry Rider about a job before I did my Dad, and he put me to repainting the walls. It was a lot better than collecting quills!

I don’t know what it’s like in there today. I haven’t been in a weave room in a score or more of years. I do know how hard of work it used to be though. Hard..hard work.