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Things my Daddy tried to teach me:

1. If you are going to do something do it right.

2. Everybody is created equal, nobody is better than anybody else.

3. Don’t waste food or mess your new shoes up.

Things my Daddy used to say:

1. (6 a.m. on school days) “Hit the deck, Hit the deck”

2. Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out!

3. “You missed a spot, right there”

4. “Sometimes you don’t have enough sense to get in out of the rain.”

5. “Huh?” (After 40 years of working in a Cotton mill)

There’s so much more. So many memories. My Dad was a funny guy in both senses of the word. He was a different man altogether in his older years than in his prime. A kinder, gentler, and more loving man took the place of the one who was more driven to prove his worth to other people who had doubted his abilities. He said “I love you” more often and always had the most tender spots for his grandchildren and greatgrand’s.

He was as good a Dad as I could have asked for, and more than I deserved in some ways.

America has a big problem with stuff. I realize this a lot after looking around on weekends and seeing hundreds of yard sales, and on Tuesdays and Saturdays at Trade day, where hundreds of people bring tons of stuff week after week. We have grown to be a country where a lot of emphasis is put on stuff, and how much of it you have.

I really think the most important things in life are our spiritual and mental welfare and our interaction with our family. Then, the things we really need are few. I don’t mean that people should all become some sort of super minimalists…there is no harm in having things that make our lives comfortable or easier.

The real trick is to not be fooled into making acquisition a way of life. I know this truth not just from observation, but from living it. I have acquired WAY too much “stuff” in my life and it’s a regretful thing. I have only just lately come to the realization that most of these acquisitions need to be severely reduced. I’ll assure you that the “getting rid of” part is a lot harder than the acquisition part!

Sorry to say, but my kids may end up having to deal with part of the mess. I apologize in advance to them for that.

The BRAIN….a writing from 2004

(Warning…this is rather long….read if you have time!)

I wonder, what is the first memory that anybody can remember? Its funny how that works isn’t it. But, that’s my question for tonight. What’s your first memory? That will eventually lead me to my other question.

See, the reason it interests me is that I often wonder if everyone else’s brain functions about the same as mine. Most of my childhood memories are rather fuzzy around the edges. Do you know what I mean? They are sort of like trying to look at something right after you have just woke up, and still have a ton of “sleep” in your eyes. Or maybe it’s like trying to remember a dream that you had the night before, during which you woke up. The dream is really clear when you first wake up, so if you EVER want to remember it well you should take the advice of dream specialists and write it down right then. If not, it’s going to be fuzzy in the morning. Fuzzy around the edges, just like those earliest memories. Sometimes I wonder if some of my memories are not really dreams. Is that possible? I think it might be. As we go through life, and we live through so many different things, it may just be that some of our more vivid dreams get mixed up in our brain with reality. That would be a hoot wouldn’t it?

Well for starters, the very first thing I remember is having to go potty really, really bad. We lived in a house back in 1953, when I was three years old that was originally a duplex that had been turned into a regular house. I remember that it confused me, because both sides of the house seemed to be the same, except the living room furniture was in one side and the bedroom furniture in the other. I remember thinking that the rooms were the same and that when I blinked my eyes, or went to sleep (especially if I got carried from one side to the other during that time) that the furniture was rearranging itself! Strange, no? But, back to pottying. I had to go really, really bad, and nobody was around to “direct” me to the correct place, so down went the pants and…..well..you can guess the rest. The part I remember the most, was getting my rear end tanned by my Pop! I never, ever did that again!

I also remember having a pair of Easter bunnies that same year. Dad brought them home in a box, and we took them out back to eat grass and they got away from us and ran up under the car. It took Daddy forever to catch them, and I didn’t know what some of the words he was using meant, but I used one of those words later on when I rode my tricycle down the front steps. I got in BIG trouble for that!

I can’t remember what happened to those rabbits though. I think Dad probably got tired of them making a mess and got rid of them one night while the furniture was changing itself around.

Another vivid thing during that same year I believe was during the summer we would catch “lightning bugs” (fireflies to a lot of you) We would put them in a jar and I would take them to a dark place and try to use them like a flashlight! Usually, we would let them go before going in for the night, but once we forgot and I came out the next morning, and couldn’t figure out why the bugs wouldn’t light up. I didn’t realize that after being in a closed jar with no hole all night long, they were NEVER going to light up again! I never caught anymore lighting bugs after that, because I never wanted to take a chance on forgetting about them, and have them laying lifeless in the bottom of the jar the next morning.

I know that I lived the first two or three years of my life at my Grandparent’s house. My Dad didn’t get out of the Navy until 1953, so my Mom and I stayed with them. I have seen pictures of myself at that age, but try as I might, try so very hard, I cannot bring up any memories of any of those times before 1953 when we moved back to Trion, where I still live today. I wish I could remember those times. What would really be neat would be to be able to remember anything and everything that ever happened to you. To just be able to sit down and say, “Now I am going to remember December of 1956 when I was six years old, and what happened at Christmas that year!” That would be a miracle wouldn’t it? Scientists say that everything is stored right up there in that little 3 pounds of gray jelly we call our brain. That wonderful, misunderstood and not fully understood organ that runs us. I have tried everything from meditation to “commanding” my brain to remember, to closing my eyes and straining and squinting, like the Oriental guy on the program “Hero’s” does when he stops time. I still can’t make it happen! Are all of you folks like that, or is it just me!!! I would like to know, so I can claim a deficiency if I am the only one.

Memory and the brain. They really are a strange thing. I remember one time when my Grandfather was in his last year of life. He didn’t know anybody, or anything much. When we went to visit him, he would just sit around and kind of “babble” like a tape recorder randomly playing back snippets of conversation recorded over years and years of time. Nothing made much sense. He always seemed like he was glad to see us, and sad to see us go…but…things were just not perking right. My Grandma was sitting there one day and talking about one of their relatives, and Grandpa spoke up all of the sudden and said: “Loyd’s dead” My Grandma answered him back telling him how crazy he was, because she had just talked to her brother Loyd early that morning. That afternoon when we took Grandma back home, she found out that Loyd had died right around the time we were all at the Nursing home. This was sometime back in 1989 if I remember correctly.

So, the brain’s funny isn’t it. I would have bet you a million dollars that Grandpa couldn’t count to ten anymore, but somehow, someway he knew his old childhood hunting buddy had died.

Maybe not being able to recall everything that has ever happened to us is a blessing. We might NOT be able to be selective and just remember the good things. We might also HAVE to remember the bad things too. There are a LOT of those things that I would rather keep shoved back into the tiny recesses and crevasses of my mind. Yes, my mind. When all is said and done, it is what we are isn’t it? Even when Grandpa’s was taken mostly away, he was given a gift of sorts to replace what had been taken from him. I guess our spirit sort of resides there. It’s about the only part of us they can’t replace still! Shoot, you can have a ticker transplant and go right on being yourself, but a diving accident can turn you into something you would rather not think about! It makes you wonder about all those people who do have that kind of damage. Have their souls, what made them who they were, already fled the premises and just left the empty shell behind?

Well, there’s the challenge for those of you who care to take it up. Can your remember everything? What was your first memory? Would you like to be able to have total recall? When our old brain is gone, like Grandpa’s was, are we still us? I think so.

Oh by the way. Does anybody remember a Science Fiction thriller from the 50’s named “Donavan’s Brain?” It was about this guy whose brain was taken out of him while he was still alive, and put into this thing that looked all the world like a ten gallon fish aquarium! They had all kind of wires hooked up to it, and had it connected to a computer looking thing. Ol’ Donovan’s Brain could still “communicate” and eventually took over some folks, if I remember right, making ‘em do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do. It was a hoot! I hope to heck they NEVER learn to do that. I hope they never learn to “store” our minds on computers either. Never able to “download” the electrical impulses from our brains onto some kind of infernal storage unit, to be put into a program so we can still communicate with the living. I don’t wanna’ be a machine. When it’s time for me to go, I want to go. I wonder, what will my LAST thought be? Whatever it is, I won’t be able to share it with any of you guys that are left behind, so I guess I better concentrate on sharing what I want to now, while I still can!!

MY TOWN

It was a fine hot day today. One of the kind of days we would have snuck up to the old boat dock and went swimming in the Chattooga river. That water was nice and cold, even in July because it had spring water running in it not too far back up stream. A lot of us boys spent time there. From the time I could swim at ten years old, until I left to go to college I went there once or twice a year.

We practiced baseball twice a week and had two games a week to play. I hated Saturday practices after I started playing golf. By the time morning practice was over…You were hot and sweaty, thirsty and tired. We still hiked up to the Trion Golf course and played nine holes though. Our Daddy’s were members through the mill and we got to play for free. We’d come back home…most of the time one of our Dad’s would come and get us…as it was usually after four when we finished.

On the weekends, we went to Chamlees Skating rink. We hung around, listened to the music and tried to get the girls. Sometimes we did something right and ended up skating holding hands with one of the girls. I so remember the songs on the “box” “Runaway”, “Tellstar” ,”Teen Angel”, “Leader of the Pack”, “It’s my Party”‘ and on and on. Songs which, if I hear them now transport me directly back there in time and space. It was a wonderful place…a refuge for kids in a small town with nothing else to do.

I would go fishing in the mornings at the river and sometimes stayed all day. We dug our worms from under the wagon bridge, big old juicy green colored worms. We fished for catfish and carp….My Uncle called them “bugle mouth bass” We took our catch up to the black folks in town and sold them. I know several of them told us they loved the carp. They loved us boys, and we loved them. There was no animosity or fear and hatred…just kids selling their catch to somebody who wanted them.

All the yards in our little town were cut neatly, with neatly trimmed bushes and flowers, and well cared for vegetable gardens in the back yards. The men would be out in their yards in their sleeveless t-shirts cutting that grass every day. They used to run a contest called “The yard of the month” for the neatest, most well kept yard. It was an honor to win…not a joke. My Dad won it one time in the years they ran it. He was happy as a pig in slop, and hung that little metal sign right out in the front yard. “YARD OF THE MONTH” emblazoned in blue letters on a white enamel background.

Summer seemed to go on and on….catching fireflies, chasing low flying bats with sticks trying to knock them down. Neighbors actually sitting on each other’s porch and talking…getting to know each other…their troubles, their joys, their hope for the future.

Fall would eventually roll around, and I was excited about going back to school, seeing friends I’d missed all Summer. We’d take a special trip yo Rome so I could pick out new school supplies. One big multi subject notebook, pencils, one or two good pens, some three ring notebook paper. The tension was palpable the night before the first day of class. Who would be the teacher for my classes, who would be in the classes…especially which girls. How would life be for that school year? Truth is…I loved trekking up and down those old wooden halls. I loved the camaraderie of my close friendships. The hard day’s, the easy days…I loved them all.

I think about my friends and classmates who have passed on. I miss them, even though I seldom saw some of them. We all shared something very special during all our seasons here in Trion. Most of us started out together in first grade, and went all the way through graduation. You don’t see that much. We were brothers and sisters, best friends, worst enemies, boyfriends and girlfriends…And most of all kindred spirits of what it was like to grow up in a little cotton mill town in Southern America, USA.

Spring Lizards and Summer Days- 2007 (re-edited today)

Nowadays at my age, the long hot summer days are just not as much fun as they used to be when I was a kid. Back then we really had nice long breaks from school. None of that six or seven weeks out, and then right back in the school building. Back in “the old days” we had three FULL months out for summer break.

None of that year round school for us old timers! May 31 rolled around, and it’s see ya’ later to the teachers until the first week of September….Yahooo!! Heck, that was so long, I forgot most of what I’d learned the year before in school! I think that’s why the first six weeks every school year back in the good old days were “review” weeks. “Reteaching” weeks for some pretty good school teachers. But, we made it through, and I wouldn’t take anything for the memories of those long, hot summer days back when I was young.

I tell you, spring and summers were the best back in the 50’s and 60s’.

I would go to the old wooden toy box back in my room, and starting digging down to the bottom, looking for my old worn out, smelly leather baseball glove with “Pee Wee” Reece’s name engraved in it. I don’t know how I ended up with Pee Wee, as I never played a lick of ball in the infield. I was always an outfielder.

I tried out for third base once, but after I had stopped the first four hard bouncer’s that came my way with my face instead of my glove, the coach thought it might be safer to put me in left field. I agree with his decision.

I liked left field. It was one of those positions where you could kind of day dream a little. Most everything that came out that way was either an easy pop fly, or a one bouncer. I was a cinch at catching those. None of that “hot corner” stuff for me.

I once was standing out in left field during a game and looking down at the ground trying to spot any four leaf clovers that might be growing there. I heard the loud crack of the bat, and looked up to see the baseball headed over my head. Way over my head. I didn’t want to look completely stupid, so I turned around and stuck my old glove out and ran as fast as I could towards the fence. The ball dropped right into the webbing of my glove. I never saw it until it did. I heard a cheer go up from the stands, and when we came in, I got more pats on the back, and attaboys then I had ever gotten before. I just said “I had it all the way”

I could never bring myself to disappoint all those people by telling them it was just pure luck.

The other great thing about warm weather was spring lizard and craw dad hunting at Grandpa’s and Grandma’s house. When warm weather hit, we would go up there a lot more often. It was difficult during the winter time, because there were only two bedrooms downstairs at their house, which meant the remainder of the guests, had to sleep upstairs. During the winter time, sleeping upstairs was just like sleeping outside. There was NO heat. I spent many a winter night with 10 quilts piled on top of me, unable to turn over, but desperately trying to conserve what little body heat was emanating from me in order to be alive the next morning. I always managed to do it somehow.

So, besides at Christmas, I didn’t like Winter time visiting at the old folk’s house!

But with spring and warm weather coming, there was the promise of fishing, and in order to fish there had to be bait. This meant my favorite activities of digging in the dirt for worms, and turning over the rocks down in the little fast running creek in front of the folk’s house for Spring lizards and Crawdads.

The only draw back to trying to catch a bucket full of these water dwelling creatures was that they were also favorites of the snakes that prowled the banks of that same creek. I was never really too afraid of snakes when I was a kid until after my Grandpa’s Uncle “Lark” Davenport killed a rattlesnake one day that he stretched across the old dirt road leading up to Grandpa’s house.

He stuck its head end in the bank on one side, and its tail end in the dirt bank on the other side. Now, that little old road was narrow, but I estimate it was at least 7 feet across, so my respect for the snakes in those parts increased tremendously after that. I asked Uncle “Lark” how he killed it, and told me he cut its head off with a hoe while he was out in his corn crib. Apparently the rattler was stocking up on some of the rats that always frequented that place. “If he hadn’t been a rattler I’d have let him be,” said Uncle Lark. I’d have let him be anyway, I think. He would have owned the corn crib after that. Rats and all.

Some of those spring lizards that we used to catch back then were as big as small snakes. Imagine turning over a big old rock, and seeing something black wiggling around that’s about a foot long. Would you stick your hand down in there and grab it? I sure did, and laughed about it the whole time. “If the bass don’t bite that,” I thought “then it might bite the bass!” Either way, we get the fish.

The crawdads were harder to catch then the spring lizards. Have you ever seen one of those little boogers take off? They are like a backwards rocket! I don’t know how they do it, but when they get scared they shoot water out their rear ends, start flapping their tails and away they go. You had to be good at estimating where they were GOING to be, not where they had been, in order to catch them. I never had the least idea that humans ate those things when I was a kid. The first time I went to Louisiana as an adult, and someone tried to serve me a dish made with Crawdads, I got kind of nauseated. After I tasted it though, it wasn’t half bad. I kind of like Etouffe’ now.

Yep, that’s how I feel today with all this heat in the air. I remember how cold that creek water was, even on the hottest of June, July and August days. I remember how I would even dare to reach down and bring a handful of that pungent water up to my mouth and drink it in deeply.

My blood is partially made from that creek water, and my soul is partially lodged in that mountain land.

That little old creek is still there, but I don’t know what the new owners of the land would think about an old man tromping down the middle of their creek with a Styrofoam bucket and yelling yahoo every time he came up with a lizard.

I wonder if there are even any left?

Instead of College degrees are our young ones going to have to go in a different direction in the future? Do we need courses or degrees in self reliance, self sufficiency, and how to live off the land? Do we need more carpenters, plumbers, electricians, beekeepers, farmers, midwifes, loggers, lumberworkers, animal husbandry experts, surveyers, builders, masons, etc., etc., and fewer people in all aspects of “technology?” I believe we are at a crossroads in our country…perhaps in our world. Seven billion human beings are a LOT of people for this world to support. Nature tends to notice when things are terribly out of balance and acts to correct the imbalance. No…I’m not a “nutty” survivalist, I just try to be a practical thinker. I also do NOT hate chickens…I love them in a crock pot with some potatoes and onions, but I don’t particularly care for them as neighbors….especially at 6 am in the morning.

Touch…..from 2006

Since I wrote this piece, I lost the ability to touch my parents. I last touched my Daddy on May 21, 2010 at about 11:45 p.m. I rubbed my hand across his forehead and asked if he needed anything. He asked for a drink of water and I got one for him…and touched his hand as I took the glass back from him.

I last touched my Mom late in the evening on December 10, 2010….holding her hand as she drew her last breath. My Daddy died early on the morning of May 22, 2010 just minutes…perhaps just a couple of minutes before I could get to where he was….his forehead was still warm. But, I was too late to be there at the very last…which I deeply regret.

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Touch….from 2006

Out of all the senses that we as humans possess, I believe that touch is the most important.

For over 37 years now on most nights, I rub my wife’s back while I read and she is going to sleep. It’s sort of a habit now, but many times I do consciously think about it. I don’t think anything symbolizes love between two people more than touch does. I feel very grateful that I have been allowed during my lifetime to touch so many people that I love. I feel incredibly sad sometimes that one day I will not be able to touch those people any longer. Either I will move on, or they will and that ability, that privilege will be lost.

All three of my kid’s were touched a lot by my wife and me. I can’t count the times I heard people say: “You’re going to spoil that child by holding them so much!” Not so. I don’t think you can hold a child and love them too much. You can figuratively hold ON to a child too much and do it for selfish reasons, and cause problems. But to hold and lovingly touch a baby or small child? Nah. I don’t believe that. I think (I hope) our three children are well adjusted. Sometimes if you can’t even bring yourself to say the words “I love you” a touch will suffice. It will communicate that love. Don’t get me wrong though, I think it should still be said with words. The people you love NEED to hear it, for confirmations sake. But at the very, very least give them your touch.

Now, our grandchildren have also been given the same treatment as our children. Both by us, and by their parents. I still sometimes hear “You’re spoiling them” but at this point I don’t care.

Even if they had been blind and deaf like Helen Keller, they would have known, someway, somehow that they were loved. They would have known by touch. That’s all that Helen Keller had to go with, and look what a human being she turned out to be! Just through touch and touch alone.

Many times we look but we don’t see, and we hear but we don’t listen. We taste this wonderful life and then never give it a second thought.

Our other most powerful sense, the sense of smell we reserve for our subliminal memories most of the time. We catch a sniff of something and a memory automatically pops into our heads. Sometimes pleasant, sometimes not. But touch is the one that we have to consciously associate with things. It serves us well as a protector when things are too hot or too cold, and we might remember when it saved us from getting badly hurt because of that. But, to associate touch with love is something we don’t often do. It’s something we have to learn to do.

Even when we are touching someone in an act of love, with love, we have to teach ourselves that that is the reason we ARE doing it. We have to teach ourselves that touch is best.

Michelangelo painted God with his hand reached out towards Adam in an effort to touch him. That is the most poignant scene of the entire Sistine Chapel ceiling to me. God reaching out to touch us, to imbue some of his spirit and his soul to us through his all powerful touch. I think he touched us, but do we appreciate it? He reached us, but do we think about it? That touch made us what we are. It elevated us above the state of being just an animal and imbued us with a spark and a soul that will never die. Wasn’t that a wonderful gift?

I really believe that when we die that our sense of touch is the last thing to go. I can’t say for sure, I haven’t died yet and hope not too for a while longer. I HAVE seen many people lying in a hospital bed unconscious and seemingly oblivious respond to a slight squeeze of the hand, or a brush to the head. I know that they know that someone they love is reaching out for them, and touching them. I think as people slip out of their human costume and into their next form, that when that last vestige of touch leaves them, that last connection to everything they have been and are leaving behind, that there is just a moment of sadness that is felt before the call of the next form of existence takes over.

I don’t think that touch will be a part of our next path….a least not the way that we know it in this life.

Think about it next time you touch someone you love, and revel in that moment. You never know when those moments are going to run low…..and then run out. You might regret that lost opportunity. I don’t want to.

My Dad was my best friend. He did so much for me during my lifetime that I could never list it all if I tried.

He was an encourager when I needed it, and a disciplinarian when he had to be. He helped me cut wood to keep my family warm. He gave me vegetables out of his garden when we needed food.

He loved my children very, very much. He loved my wife like she was his own daughter. He was not perfect, and neither am I…so he taught me that you don’t HAVE to be perfect to be a good Father, just be there.

The last time I heard his voice was on May 22 2010..about 6:45 a.m. I wish almost every day that I could talk to him just one more time. I try to be half the Daddy that he was to me.

Miss you Dad, you were a good one. I’ll be thinking about you tomorrow, and wishing I could catch a fish, or whack a golf ball in your memory…or make somebody laugh like you always could.

If I had the chance…I put this arm around you….then the other arm around you….and squeeze hard!!

Paula and drove to Blue Ridge today for lunch and a quick drive to some places we went during our “honeymoon” 50 years ago. It was a simple week, staying in a little suite we thought would have long ago been torn down. To our surprise the little cottage units were still there, albeit a little careworn. I’m not sure what they called them back then. “Something” cottages. It was somewhere close enough that we could drive there in a couple of hours. It was right next to the lake. It was close to Cherokee N.C., which was going to be one of our main “trips” while we were there.

Paula reminded me that the cabin with the car parked next to it was where the National Forest ranger lived back in ‘69. We had driven our old ‘64 Ford Galaxy over onto the dam and it went dead. Had a bad alternator. We walked back to the ranger’s house and he gave me a ride to my Uncle’s house where I could get his help with the car. Paula stayed with the Ranger’s wife and kids.

Turns out, the car would have to be pushed off every time it needed starting…no much of a problem, just a little push. We lived with it while we were there. But, the day we were going to leave, I couldn’t get the locking gas cap off the car to put gas in it. We started back home from Blue Ridge with a half a tank of gas in a 350, 8 cylinder Ford…praying it would make it the 90 miles home. I coasted down from the top of Fort Mountain in neutral…could not turn the engine off because there would have been no brakes or steering, since they were power brakes and power steering.

The engine was running on fumes when we coasted into eighth street. Turns out, the gas cap was cross threaded onto the top, and we needed a new alternator. (And battery)

Fortunately, we had a luckier day today and had a nice lunch and a quick drive through some of the places we remember. Wish we’d had time to visit.

A Fathers Love, written in 2010.

I did a lot of writing before I got sick with heart disease and had bypass surgery. I’ll share a few of these little “essays” over the next little bit of time. Nobody has to agree or disagree…or even read them for that matter.

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I know a Father’s love is advantageous, if at all possible.

With Fathers Day coming up soon, we all tend to want to pay respect to, and honor our Fathers.

Most of our Fathers are or were very precious to us. Most gave us unconditional love, and they gave us discipline when we needed it. They gave us guidance and advice. They raised us.

I also know sometimes Fathers totally mess up their kids. I watched Forrest Gump again the other night and pondered on how glad I am that there are not too many Daddies like Jenny’s Daddy.

I’m so glad my Dad was good to me, and I have tried my best to be good to my children. My wish is that all children have good role models and tight family units, but most of all that children have parents…People…who love them, and show them so, and tell them so. It’s of the utmost importance that the love is there.

I also remember reading that when his disciples told Jesus there were 5000 people following him, some of them sick…the first thing he did was walk among them and heal them, and then he took a small amount of food and multiplied it many times over …miraculously, and fed them all…with baskets full of food left over.

Bread and fish.

He did not “qualify” these people, nor did he care what class they were, what color their skins were, what their sins were, what country they were from, or who they loved and why. At least I didn’t read that anywhere.

He didn’t even really preach to them at that point…simply ministered to their physical needs, healed them, “taught them” and sent them away. He wasn’t mad because they senselessly followed him far away from civilization. He didn’t berate them. He dealt with them all equally with compassion . He was good at that. He acted like a good Father would act.

If you’re a Christian, or if you are some other religion, or no religion at all…It’s good to remember to treat all people with love and respect, but if you have responsibility for children…you must go even further because the need of children is far greater than adults.

If we are using Jesus as an example we must remember that he did not put himself above anyone…

except for that one last time.