That’s a Big Bathtub!

Ellie held tightly to her dad’s hand. This was her first time at the beach and today would be a special day. She stood still, taking in as many of the sights and sounds as she could. The noise of the wind as it ruffled her hair, the waves rolling toward her and then back out to sea, the smell of salt water, the seagulls as they dipped and dived at unseen food, the sun that made diamonds sparkle out on the water, and the crunch of the sand under her feet were almost too much for a two year old.

Ellie took a deep breath and tugged on her dad’s hand. Chris stooped down so he could hear. “Daddy,” Ellie said, “that sure is a big bathtub”!

Oh, the wonder of God’s creation seen through the eyes of a child. Before the day was over and Chris, Tori, and Ellie headed home, Ellie had found a new playground. She played in the sand, let the waves splash her legs as she walked along the water’s edge, and, wonder of wonders, picked up seashells washed up to her from the floor of the ocean, almost like a gift.

On the ride home, a tired little girl slept, dreaming of sand, sun, water, seashells, and the day she got to play with her mommy and daddy in God’s big bathtub.

Grams

Honor Their Sacrifice

Memorial Day–the day all Americans honor those who have given their lives in service for their country. Often there are parades, barbecues, ceremonies on the courthouse square, and family outings to commemorate the significance of this day. This particular Memorial Day, after the parade, there was to be a ceremony honoring the town’s veterans. At the conclusion of the ceremony the mayor wanted someone to pay taps.

Now, in a small southern town that meant whoever was first chair in the high school band trumpet section had that honor. But this year, the boy who held first chair had a schedule conflict. So, second chair was asked to play. Second chair in the trumpet section was my son, Brian. This was a special time for him, particularly since he was a year younger than the other guy. This was something that should not have come to him for at least another year, maybe even two.

He had only a couple of days to practice. And yes, he was nervous. He was to stand on the court house square at the flag pole. Following the parade, people were to gather around while the mayor recognized the veterans that were present and made a speech. Then it would be Brian’s time to play. Over and over, what seemed like every waking moment, Brian played taps. To me it seemed simple enough; quite straightforward really. But to a sophomore in high school, it was a major undertaking. After all, the entire town would be there. Well, not really, but in his mind there was going to be a huge crowd and he wanted to do his best. I couldn’t fault  him because that is what I expected of him anyway.

The day was bright and sunny, just right for all that would take place that day. When the time came for Brian to play, he stood a little to the right of the flag pole, closed his eyes, and did what he knew to do. And it was flawless! Quiet settled over the crowd. Some of the older men wiped tears from their eyes, remembering a time far in the past when those they had fought with did not get to come home. Family members of those same men hung their heads in silent recognition of their absence. As the last note floated away, carried off on a gentle spring breeze, a sigh rippled through the crowd. No one moved; no one wanted to forget. Children who did not understand what had just happened were quiet; they knew it was a special time. And it was.

There was another day, years later, when Brian stood to the side of those gathered to commemorate the passing of their friend and comrade. This time it was not on the court house square, not even in the United States. This time Brian was with the 3rd ID in Iraq and they were holding services for those who had died the day before. Apparently, he was the only bugler in that part of Iraq. After the services, the battalion commander said, “Son, this time was different. You knew him, didn’t you?” Brian said, “Yes, Sir. He was my friend.”

Brian had gone on to take a degree in music performance out of high school, so the level of expertise was greater. But it was not Brian’s expertise with the trumpet that made the difference in the two events. This time Brian knew; this time the men who had died were men he had fought with; men he had talked with, ate with; had shared life with.  All the emotion that flooded his heart poured from his trumpet. He honored their sacrifice.

Memorial Day is about a month away. Maybe you haven’t fought alongside men in combat, but you definitely are reaping the benefits of those who have. Think about what you have and how your life would be if men down through the years had not been willing to fight so you could live. Take the time to honor their sacrifice. Remember.

Grams

God’s Lay-away

It was hunter green and made of the softest brushed suede. Chris looked through the rack. Yep, there was one in his size. He slipped it off the rack and tried it on; it was a perfect fit. Gently his hands rubbed the suede; he checked the fit in the mirror. Before he asked, I reminded him it was $149.99. I did not have the money and saw no way to come up with it. Besides, I could get two for the price of that one at Wal Mart.

He knew, even before I said anything. But he wanted that jacket. He asked how much would I be willing to pay. He was intent on working out a deal with me. That was his style and he was good at it too. I thought for a minute; I wanted to be sure of my terms before I said anything. “OK, if the price drops below $50, I’ll get it for you, providing there is still one in your size.” He grinned and said, “It’s a deal.”

I turned to walk on but Chris lingered. He had taken the jacket off, put it back on the rack, and was standing there, holding on to the jacket with his head down. Great! Now he was praying.

Chris didn’t mention the jacket anymore, but every time we went to Belks, he always checked that rack. His size was still there. Then, one day the price was down to $115. He just grinned and walked on. Each week we made a trip to Belks just to check the price of that jacket. As the price continued to drop, I knew I had better find $50 somewhere.

Several weeks later we walked into the store for our weekly price check. Three jackets remained on the rack. The sign read, $39.95. Chris looked up at me with anticipation. What if after all this time there was not one in his size? He looked at the three remaining jackets. Yes! One was his size! He tried it on again, just to be sure it fit. He said, “I knew God would give me this jacket. I needed one and I asked Him for this one.” Then, he again bowed his head; this time he was thanking his provider, not asking.

That day a happy little boy walked out with a hunter green, brushed suede jacket God had put on lay-away, just for him. That same day a proud momma was humbled by the faith of her 12 year-old son.

Grams

Quality Time

Supper was family time. We didn’t designate it as quality time, although that would be a good definition. It was just when the four of us spent time together, talked about the important things that happened that day, checked up on how school was going, and discussed any plans and chores coming up for the rest of the week. No topic was off limits. The boys were allowed to ask anything they wanted and I promised a fair discussion and an honest answer. Topics ranged anywhere from fishing and hunting to girls to something they had heard in Sunday School. We sat at the table a lot of the times longer than anyone had really intended, but in looking back those were really special days.

The answer to a lot of the problems between parents and kids today may be finding ways to spend quality time with each other. Parents look at their schedules; the kids do the same. The number of people who make up the household is the number of schedules that are involved. No wonder they often throw up their hands in frustration, acknowledging there’s just no way it can happen. Obviously concessions must be made. But who will make them? Usually time together goes out the window while everybody scurries to their next appointment.

I like things simple. Why spend time trying to figure out how to synchronize multiple schedules? Just set one time each day when everyone makes the same commitment–gather around the dinner table. Choose whatever time is the best for the family and declare that time sacred. Nothing other than emergencies is allowed to interfere. I still went to ballgames, band concerts, drama presentations, hosted youth activities, took the boys fishing, chaperoned school trips, and all the other things parents are expected to do. But when dinner was served, that was the time just for the four of us, MaMa, Brian, Chris, and me.

Will it work today? I don’t know; it did in the 80s.

Grams

The First Time I Saw My Daddy Cry

The afternoon had slipped into early evening. The sun was just a glow that hovered above the treetops, waiting to say goodbye to yet another day. Gently the wind stirred, rustling the branches of the big, old pine tree that dominated our front yard. But that pine tree was more than a fixture in our front  yard; it was where three little girls spent most of their day, playing. There underneath its canopy we marked off rooms for our playhouse, dug roads for our cars to ride on, and gathered up cans, jar lids, and anything else we could find to outfit our pretend world. No cares, no worries, no concerns; just complete peace and quiet.

But, the world my parents lived in was not as restful. There were cares, worries, and concerns, and this day was a particularly worrisome day. There was no food. Nothing. The food had run out and it was still days before they could expect any money. Somehow three little girls needed their supper.

Daddy had a special place out in the woods beside the house where he went to pray. So when daddy came out of the house and turned toward the woods, I knew he was going to his special place. I started after him, but he stopped, looked at me intently, and said, “No, you can’t come this time.” About that time mother came to the porch and one of us asked when supper would be ready. Quietly mother said, “When your daddy gets back. Just play a while longer.” So we did.

Maybe 30 minutes, maybe an hour went by. I don’t really know, but after a while, daddy came walking back toward the house. Peace occupied the place worry once held. He walked with more energy and confidence. Even to an 8 year old something had noticeably changed.

“Look, daddy. Look at all those cars turning off the highway.” Car after car drove into our yard. It seemed as if the entire church made up that caravan. We stood captivated as each family brought baskets and sacks of groceries and goods into the house. The church had decided to surprise us with a “pounding.” When the last sack was unloaded, food covered our dining table, the chairs, and lined the walls of the dining room and kitchen. Smoked hams hung on the back porch. I remember a 50-gallon can of lard (we don’t use that now) that sat just inside the kitchen door.

I will never forget the look that passed between my mother and daddy. With tears streaming down his face, Daddy told mother, “I told you the Lord would provide.”  It was the first time I saw my daddy cry.

Grams

Riding Saplings

Brian opened the back door, struggling not to drop Chris. He just kind of dumped Chris on the floor, who immediately let out a howl. I got him up and to the couch so I could check his wounds, plying Brian with questions only a mother could think of. What have you been doing? You know when Chris is with you there are certain things you cannot do. (Brian is six years older than Chris. They were 13 and 7 at this particular episode.) Brian began to make excuses. He was watching out for him; he didn’t know he was holding on to the sapling. After all the tears (Chris’), the questions (mine), and explanations (Brian’s), it seems the boys had been riding saplings.

I understand this is quite a ride and only boys would ever think of such a thing. You go out into the woods, search until you find just the right size of small tree (that’s what a sapling is); one you can bend down without breaking. The person who intends to ride the sapling gets a good grip close to the top of the tree. Then when you’re ready, the one holding the sapling down lets go and you go with the tree, riding it until it stops bending back and forth. When it stops you slide down and pull it to the ground for someone else to ride.

Brian and his friends had decided this particular tree was not quite what they wanted and let it go. However, they failed to tell Chris. So, as the sapling swung upright, so did Chris. But, he was not able to hang on and went sailing several feet through the air, landing about 30 feet away. Hence, the emergency trip to the house.

After Chris was assured he would live, he looked at me and said, “If I’m going to do that very often, I’m going to need to work on my landing.” To say the least!

Grams

Cotton Pickin’ Time

White cotton bolls looked up at the clouds, so white and fluffy they too needed picking. Summer was almost over and cotton pickin’ time loomed just over the horizon.

Cotton pickin’ time was a telling event in the life of a cotton farmer. All year long this occasion held forth its promise of better days to come. A good harvest meant bills were paid and seed for the next year’s crop and household supplies could be bought. Sometimes there might be a new toy or candy. A good crop was the difference between getting by and having enough money to pay the mortgage.

The closer the time came to go into the fields, daddy busied himself hiring the hands necessary to pick the cotton, weigh it up, and haul it to the gin. Everything had to be just right and ready to go when the big day arrived.

Across the back of our old farmhouse was an L-shaped porch. The corner of the L served as the cotton-weighing station. Here the pick sacks were weighed and emptied. The cotton piled higher and higher, waiting to be taken to the gin. Soon a large, white, fluffy mound filled the corner.

Two little girls watched as sack after sack of the white, fluffy stuff added to the height of the mound forming in the corner. Almost as if on cue, both girls took a running leap, landing in the middle of the soft, pillowy cotton. That was fun!. Let’s do it agian! And so the afternoon was spent running, jumping, and rolling around in the freshly picked cotton. That is until, almost like magic, daddy appeared from around the corner of the house. The delight of a summer’s afternoon fun quickly lost its appeal under the gaze of a tired, overworked cotton farmer.

There we stood, hot and sweating, with little puffs of cotton stuck in our hair and to our skin. Squirming on bare feet, there was just no place to hide–no place to go where the intent glare of daddy’s eyes did not penetrate. Amid the tears of sorrow and pleas for mercy, daddy explained that jumping on the cotton damaged its quality and lowered his price per pound. Gently he reached down, picked us up, kissed us, and sent us inside to get cleaned up. There might be other times when correction would be needed, but never again did we jump into the great mound of white cotton piled ever so high on the L-shaped porch.

The heavenly Father looks down from above those same white, puffy clouds into the very heart of man. God’s gaze penetrates the darkness of sin, separating motive, thought, word, and deed. Still, He is moved with compassion and forgiveness when man repents and asks for mercy. He, too, gently picks us up and lovingly cleans away the dirt and grim. Sometimes, the temptation to return to old ways is so compelling that Jesus once again must pull us out of the mire and muck of sin, fathfully wiping away the hurt and pain. He never grows weary of bending to the needs of His children, but, oh, how He must tire of rescuing the same children from the same quagmire.

The mound of cotton beckons from the corner of the porch. Just one more time; it won’t hurt anything. But, you remember the look in your dad’s eyes and the promise you made not to do that again. Will you honor your word? Will you seek to please him because he loved you enough to forgive your disobedience? Well, will you?

Grams

When the Goat Balked

Mother had finished with me; she had two more to go. I was told to sit in the rocker on the front porch and not get dirty. This was the usual routine when getting ready to go anywhere, especially to church. Sometimes I was told to sit in the living room on the couch or a chair, but seldom was I allowed to go outside while mother bathed and dressed my sisters. For some reason she thought she could trust me to do what she told me to do. And for the most part I did. But this time it was different.

This was not our porch; this was not even our house. Back in the 50s whenever a preacher “ran” a revival the entire family went along. There were few hotels, at least where we were, so we always stayed with a family in the church where the revival was being held. This particular family eventually became lifelong friends of our family, which made it really neat to stay there. You didn’t have to always be on your very best behavior, and that made it especially nice for me.

So there I sat, starched dress and slip, hair fixed just so-so, and those dreaded patent leather shoes. Johnny (not his real name) came around the corner of the house. I asked him what he’d been doing? (He was about me age.) He told me he’d been riding a billy goat. He cocked his head to the side and said, “I bet you can’t ride him.” Well, that did it. Of course I could ride a billy goat. If he could, I could and I told him so.

We went around to the barn and the goat was penned up in the barn lot with other animals. Actually, they were pigs. Anyway, Johnny caught the goat and held him while I got on. I grabbed hold of the horns, Johnny let go of the goat, and he took about three steps and balked. I didn’t know that’s what you called it but I learned quickly what it felt like. Over the goat’s head I sailed, right into a hog wallow. Know what that is? It’s a muddy hole a hog has wallowed out and it stinks worse than anything you can imagine.

When I hit the ground I remembered the starched dress and the patent leather shoes, and mother. Too late! I had to face her. That most definitely qualified as doomsday. Needless to say, mother was none too happy. Neither was I when she finished with me, again.

Grams

Who Got Queen?

Queen had never been shampooed nor taken to a vet for shots. She had no special kind of food filled with vitamins and minerals, formulated to cause her to live beyond the normal life span of a dog. But she was healthy. She ate good; the same food we ate, supplementing her diet with a rabbit or two. And if she got hurt in any way, my dad took care of it. He always knew what to do for cuts, ticks, even snake bites. Queen was a working farm dog.

I really don’t know how old she was, but I remember her standing guard at the gate to prevent strangers from coming into the yard. I was three at the time. Queen’s chief responsibility was to watch over my sister and me when we were in the yard playing. When anyone came to the gate, even if mother said it was OK to come in, Queen always stayed between my sister and me and whoever had come to the house.

Queen was not a pretty dog and I don’t remember having any particular feelings one way or the other for her. I was only three and she was the watch dog. She was not a pet that was allowed in the house. She had a function and she performed it very well.

Daddy needed one more crop and he’d have the farm paid for; it would belong to him, all of it. But God had other plans for him. God had called him to preach! He faced a major decision in his life. Owning his own farm had been a life’s dream for him and he was within one year of reaching that goal. But, now God was redirecting his life, and ours as well. I don’t remember how long it took him to decide what he would do, but I do remember that soon we were driving 100 miles to Bibb County, Alabama for daddy to preach.

After about a year, daddy became pastor of a church and we had to move. The farm had to go. He was a preacher now, not a farmer. The crop that would have paid the farm free of the bank was ready to harvest, but daddy didn’t have time to gather it. One Saturday there was a big sale. The crops, the farm equipment, the mules and other livestock, and the land were all sold. We had burned our bridges behind us. From here on out my daddy would be a preacher and I would be a PK, a preacher’s kid.

I never did know who got Queen.

Grams

The Preacher and the June Bug

We had heard about it and had been in a few places that had it, but air conditioning was only a dream for most poor folks in the deep South back in 1953. Maybe lack of air conditioning is one of the reasons most of us kids stayed out of doors as long as we could.

Southern Mississippi steamed. People, animals, even plants sweltered in the heat. The only reprieve was a vagrant breeze or when the sun went behind a cloud. The occasional summer shower cooled the air just for a bit, then the heat would return. There was one thing worse and that was being inside.

I squirmed; my mother glared. Nothing was stirring but me and the June bug that flew in and out of the open window. There were no screens so the insects had free range. Adding to my discomfort were the starched dress, slip, and patent leather shoes mother insisted that I wear. There seemed to be an unwritten law that girls had to suffer unbearable torture in order to become a lady. But being a lady was not what I was interested in. I wanted out of there. I had heard a bunch of boys talking about playing baseball. I could play ball just as good as any boy there and I intended to prove it. I sighed. Would he never get through?

What was that? Sounded like someone was gagging. My dad had stopped talking and was choking on something. I looked at mother; she seemed a little concerned but she didn’t go to him. Dad turned his back to the audience, walked to the window behind the pulpit, put his finger down his throat, and pulled out the biggest June bug I’d ever seen. That was the end of the sermon for that day. The June bug had scratched the back of my dad’s throat and he was not able to finish preaching. Even today, June bugs remain one of my favorite bugs. I’ve always wondered if that June bug thought dad’s mouth was just another open window.