BIRTHDAY FOR A BROTHER

  My older younger brother just had a milestone birthday.  
(I am the oldest of three brothers; he's the second one, so doesn't that make him my 'older younger brother' ?) At any rate, this week he had THE birthday . . . 75 . . .  that some gerontologists say is the demarcation line separating us from the 'young old' . . . which is the category in which our 'baby brother' at 67 currently resides.  Neither of the three of us can quite fathom how we arrived here so quickly.

   I have a clear memory of riding with our parents and Uncle Frank Durham on the day he came home  from his birthing hospital.  However, I remember only through  hearing repetitive parental narrative how, in time, I allegedly inquired as to when they were  'going to take that kid back to the hospital?'

They decided to keep him

Even though our growing up years were "a while back", there are lots of memories that provide retelling of old stories whenever we are together.  

In high school, Den excelled in athletics.  At UNC Chapel Hill, he was pre-med and after Internship, did his Residency in Orthopedics  at Yale-New Haven Hospital.  There is a kind of stereotyping of medical specialist according to personality and temperament.  Whether correct or not, Orthopedics is the domain of athletic types and Den fit the profile, being the physically strongest and most athletic of the brothers.

UNC undergrad

After spending time practicing 'Army medicine', including a year at Saigon General Hospital,  Den spent his entire medical career in New Hampshire.  He arrived there by the circuitous route brought on by needing a job after his college Freshman year.  I asked the owner of the boys' camp where I had spent a couple of Summers if he would hire my brother.  While there, he met Irena, a Syracuse University undergrad, whose family owned a nearby summer cottage.  And, as the saying goes, "the rest is history".  They raised three remarkable and accomplished children and are now the doting grand-parents of six --- three boys and three girls. He retired a couple or so years ago and spends time traveling, catching up on missed golf games and enjoying their place on Lake Winnepesaukee.

1965

Newly weds with younger version of older brother in background

50 years later 

Soon to be Major with wife and oldest child, ca. 1970

One story that is often retold is how he scared the bejeebers out of a camper who had been exiled to the lakeside while the other kidders were preparing for bed.  My brother put on his sunglasses, trench coat and army helmet liner and was sneaking up on the young hellion.  The kid saw Den at the same time that a loon cut loose with a cry.  I was 500 yards away in center camp and I heard the scream.  The Head Counselor ... 50  + years to my 22 ... outran me down the beach to the scene.  

While our parents paid for the two of us to have piano lessons, neither of us has musical talent. For that matter, neither of us can carry a tune in the proverbial bucket, that talent having gone to the youngest brother.   Several years ago,  he attended a Bluegrass concert and at intermission asked the band leader if they would sing Life's Railway to Heaven, an old Gospel song.  The man replied, "We don't sing no spirichul songs."  Subsequently, I made a recording for him that included every version that I could locate.

Now we get together primarily at family Thanksgiving gatherings.  He lives too far away.  He dislikes North Carolina's Summer Swelterings and has acclimated to New Hampshire Winters.  

When he and his family are here this coming Thanksgiving, no doubt some of the same old stories will be told again (to use dad's long ago phrase) for the 'fortyleventhbluemillionth time'.  But then, old stories are a kind of mortar that help bond folks together.

"The Way We Were" . . .   3 brothers ca. 1962

"The Way We Are" ... Thanksgiving 2015

So, "Happy 75",  'Little Brother' and 'Welcome' to this phase of the journey.

                                  Satchel

SADIE'S LEMONADE STAND

   Did you have  a lemonade stand when you were young?

  Well, this is a story about a special lemonade stand and the young 'mastermind' behind it.  Sadie is our niece's twelve year old daughter who is a bundle of energy, accomplishments and kindness.
An "A Honor Roll" student, she also excels as an athlete on community softball and basketball teams.  She and her older sister, Abby, have won numerous awards and recognitions as members of a dance/gymnastics troupe.  However impressive these endeavors are, it is her 'kind heart' that is especially endearing.

    Given her energy and creativity, we were not surprised when the above picture appeared on social media last night.  The 'surprise' came when we learned the reason for her entrepreneurial endeavor.
. . . more about that momentarily.  This morning wanting to support her initiative, we drove the few miles to her 'business'.  What we experienced far exceeded the usual table, chair, pitcher and cups that are the staple of juvenile lemonade businesses.

    

"The Boss (in yellow shirt) and her Assistants"

While the idea had originated with Sadie, she had enlisted the help of her parents, her siblings (Luke and Abby), and several friends. I counted five other youth actively assisting her. As the above picture suggests, this was no 'small-time' operation.
And, when we left, we saw this advertisement at an intersection about a quarter of a mile away :

Discussing our experiences and observations afterwards, it seemed to us that several good things were occurring at the lemonade stand.

There was a strong spirit of cooperation among the youth and Daddy Steve was strongly encouraging the efforts by painting and erecting the large sign in the above picture.  No one was  distracted by an electronic device and no unkind words were spoken.  Regardless of the size of their orders, customers were treated respectfully.  The responsibilities of accepting payment and making correct change proceeded smoothly for these young merchants.  As the end of summer vacation nears, these youth undoubtedly could have been enjoying another trip to the pool.  And . . . here is the remarkable part:

They were raising money not for themselves but to assist someone facing a major health and financial situation.

Sadie's 'cash register'

A friend of Sadie's mom recently received a diagnosis of an auto-immune disorder that has caused the loss of her liver and the incurring of extraordinary expenditures.  Without insurance, the family already has medical bills in excess of forty thousand dollars and further expensive procedures remain.  (To learn more, go to Jamie Boisvert's "Go Fund Me" site.)

Sadie's lemonade business occurred because she decided to help someone in need.  At the end of 'the business day', the lemonade stand had generated $253.50.  

No doubt, that caused her to leap for joy  !

Satchel

"HOTTER 'N . . . "

. . . In the event you do not decipher the Southern  drawl . . . the  post title can be translated  "Hotter than . . . ", leaving it up to your personal comparison to complete the sentence.
Nominees that I have heard over the years include: "Hell"; "Hades": "Blue Blazes"; "Whiz Bang"; "a Firecracker", and there are others that will not go into this overall "G" rated blog.

    The heat at this time of the year seems to be a consistent theme in my writing.  Maybe it's a not so subtle way to honor the Winter-time promise of not complaining about Summer-time heat.  Noting or indicating are not the same as complaining, are they?  So here we are in almost mid-August, the time of year that my New Hampshire brother has pledged to remain at some distance from his home state.  The forecast high temp today was only 89* F but in mid-afternoon, I saw 96* on a sign.

  (And as I think of fahrenheit, I remember that a colleague who holds both  DMin and MD degrees said that his daughter had given him that as a nickname. When he inquired Why?, she told him that it was because he has 'so many degrees'.)

   Adapting to the temp has followed varying preferences. Friends and family have posted many pictures of fun in the sun and surf at their favorite beaches. Others indicate their preference for the cooler mountain areas.  We have made several trips to frozen yogurt parlors. Friends indicate that there is less 'stove top' and oven cooking happening at their homes. And, in this part of the world, Air Conditioning units seem to go full time.

    This AC dependency is largely, of course, a "First World" phenomenon. Denizens of many areas would consider us  going 'soft'  when we are without Mr. Carrier's invention. The mother of Detective Mick Belker on the long ago television program, Hill Street Blues, often called him at inopportune times. On one episode when he was booking someone, mom telephoned with the dilemma of how to keep dad cool in their non-air condition tenement.  As Belker's frustration grew, the one being booked interrupted, "Tell her to fill the bathtub with cold water and put him in it."  The detective shot the man a withering look and then repeated the suggestion to mom.

    Well, we did not resort to tubs of cold water, but recently we revisited the pre-AC experience.  The 'keep the windows open for the breeze' approach proved futile. We resorted to recliner and sofa on the lower level.  It took a couple of days for the repairman to arrive. He said  malfunctioning of a particular component was occurring in many units in town.

    Recently I mentioned to a young colleague that prior to the 1960's, most motor vehicles were equipped with  4-60 air conditioners. Noticing that the expression was meaningless, I explained that we opened 4 windows and drove 60 miles per hour. I did not even attempt to explain the vents on the front windows that directed the breeze onto passengers in those seats.

    However you do it, Stay Cool.  In less than six months we will be complaining that it's Colder 'n . . . 

       Satchel

    
   

The Pitcher is a Potter

Have you ever been to Whynot ?  Well, why not ?  Quite likely it's because you knew not that the place even existed.  Located along 'Pottery Highway' near the central North Carolina town of Seagrove 
(another place that has not been on your travels ?), there is little there that you would notice except the  highway sign.

It's almost in the center of the State.

According to local tradition, several years ago residents gathered to choose a name for their 'town'.  After several suggestions had been    rejected, someone recommended, "Why not name it Why Not and let's just go home?"

The Seagrove area is frequently called the "Pottery Capital of North Carolina" and sometimes, less modestly, the "Pottery Capital of the World".  I will leave it to 'authorities' to resolve the matter. . .See Wikipedia for "Seagrove, NC".  But leaving downtown Seagrove and just before the above sign is our favorite pottery, Dirtworks and our friend, Dan the Potter.

A few years ago, Our State Magazine (North Carolina) did a cover story on Seagrove and featured a two-page spread including full page photo of Dan.

{And this is where I indicate that this post is neither a requested nor paid commercial.  As a matter of fact, Dan will probably see this at about the same time you see it. If interested, put "Dirt Works Pottery" in your search engine.}

Ian is our ten year old former next door neighbor who shares my love of baseball. We think that he plays several positions well, especially as catcher or pitcher (See earlier post, "Take Me Out to the Ballgame").

He had expressed interest in seeing Dan's two Saint Bernard 'puppies' , each weighing 125 # + at six months old.  Dan invited us to bring Ian to see the 'pups' and he indicated that while we were there, he would teach Ian to 'throw' a piece of pottery.  The dogs provided affectionate entertainment. 

Pups

 After initial hesitancy, Ian donned a work shirt and set about his first creation.  Dan was a remarkably patient, kind, encouraging teacher and when the venture was complete, the pot was ready for the kiln.  Dan indicated that it would be ready in a couple of weeks.

Teacher and Student

About seventy-one years ago when I was in the second grade, our teacher brought clay for us to make a piece of pottery.  Mine was a purple monstrosity but when I gave it to my mom, she acted as if it were crafted by a world-class potter.  Until her death in 2003, that piece of pottery remained along with other keepsakes on a shelf by her kitchen sink.  I hope that Ian's creation will bring comparable pride to its recipient.

After all,  "Why Not ?"

Satchel

"We Be Cripples, All of Us . . ." and Kintsugi

  Somehow they seem to go together, to  express somewhat the same sentiment . . . a snippet from a Frederick Beuchner novel and a song, Japanese Bowl, that a client sang as part of his therapy reflections last week.  Each contradicts the acclaimed preferred notions of perfection, beautiful is best, unflawed, etc.

  The Beuchner quote (I do not know in which of his novels this first appeared. I  read it in a book of daily meditations taken from his works.):  When the character Gildas struggled to stand up, he lost his balance because one leg had been amputated at the knee. When Brendan caught him, Gildas lamented, "I'm as crippled as the dark world." To which Brendan answered, "If it comes to that, which one of us isn't, my dear ?"  The narrator continued, "The truth of what Brendan said stopped all our mouths. We was cripples all of us. . . .  'To lend each other a hand when we're falling,' Brendan said. 'Perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end.'"  [In Beuchner, Listening to Your Life, meditation for March 24]

    I had not heard Peter Mayer's song before my client sang it in his last session as he reflected on difficult places he has travelled.  The bowl pictured above is an example of kintsugi, an ancient method of repairing broken pottery. (If interested in how the process is achieved, put your search engine on the word.) (The song can be found on YouTube.)
     "I'm like one of those Japanese bowls
         That were made long ago
       I have some cracks in me
       That have been filled with gold

   That's what they used back then
  When they had a bowl to mend
    It did not hide the cracks
   It made them shine instead

   So now every old scar shows
   from every time I broke
   And anyone's eyes can see
   I'm not what I used to be

  But in a collector's mind
  All of these jagged lines
  Make me more beautiful
  And worth a higher price

  I'm like one of those Japanese bowls
  I was made long ago
  I have some cracks you can see
   See how they shine of gold.

   The therapist, Mary Piper, wrote that "almost everyone I know has a much harder and more complicated life than others realize."  And, I can not locate the origin of this reminder: "Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle." Or, as I heard old-timers say in my youth, "everybody's totin' a load."  And the stressors of those loads often press to the breaking point.  It is at those places and times that rather than consigning the broken ones to irrelevance, adopting the art of kintsugi and the understanding that the person is more beautiful without hiding the wounds, "perhaps that's the only work that matters in the end".

    In a world where "we be cripples, all of us", kintsugi can speak a word of HOPE.

      Satchel

"Bye, bye, Betty"

'Selfie' of 'Ms Betty',  my wife and me after church today

        'Ms Betty' is leaving us, moving yet again. She has 'packed up' her worldly belongings several times  over the  years . . .  from her native 'New Hamp-sha', through numerous billetings with her late Navy husband, Len, [see earlier post 'Mr. Len'], then here to North Carolina where we have known her for these past few years, and now on to Georgia to be close to her grand-son, an Air Force officer, and his family.

   Approaching 94, she is a marvel.  Still driving her big Nissan, maintaining her mental acuity, and just being delightful company, already we miss her.  Our church had an 'early birthday and farewell lunch' for her this afternoon.  (We also had the sad occasion of saying 'good-bye' to another couple who in retirement are moving to the NC coast.)  This coming Advent season at church, we shall be reminded yet again of her creative and sharing spirit when the Christmon  tree is placed in the sanctuary.  Betty was the inspiration and instructor in preparing these symbols.  Subsequently, she shared her know-how with other area congregations.

   In our conversation today, she noted that her sense of humor has been indispensable as she has accumulated birthdays.  My customary parting words to her are ,  "You behave yourself !" to which her consistent reply is "Do I have to ?".  Her sister, Eleanor, has frequently visited her from New Hampshire and Betty has often gone there for extended visits.  Several years ago, Betty and Len had planned to fly to Boston and subsequently rent an automobile for New Hampshire. When they learned that car rental agencies would not rent vehicles to persons over 80, they opted to drive the distance from North Carolina to New Hampshire.  So much for being defined by age !

    Among my regrets, I wish that I had recorded her reminiscences.  'Stories' are a huge part of how we define and understand ourselves and the worlds in which we live and have lived.  I hope that her grand-son and family will make lots of videos.  Like her impishly mischievous late spouse, she has lots of good stories  waiting to be told and she tells them well.

    Satchel

"THERE ONCE WAS A WRITER NAMED GIBBS . . ."

       Very few of you who read this post would have known my  friend, Milburn Gibbs, who died recently at age 76.  Throughout his life, he had been a witty, articulate, intelligent man.  That most cruel of diseases, Alzheimer's, had robbed him of much of his identity in recent times.

   In the 1990's,  Milburn returned to his native North Carolina.  During his years in California, he had been Vice-President of a successful family bakery business and wrote part-time for the Long Beach Press-Telegram.  Soon after arriving back here, he interviewed with my brother, Bob, who was then Editor of the local weekly newspaper.  He worked as reporter, columnist, and eventually as Editor of the chain's edition in a nearby town of Liberty.  Over time, he won several state newspaper association awards for his columns.  He also remarried with my brother, also an ordained minister, conducting the wedding with Lala.

     Tomorrow, my brother and I will conduct his Memorial Service.
 (Parenthetically, while Bob and I have each conducted numerous services as ministers, this is only the second one that we have done together.)  The following is the text of what I prepared for that occasion to remember this good man:

"Milburn's obituary noted that 'writing was his passion'.  Doubtless, there were lots of reasons for that . . . his ability to make 'lasting friends wherever he went'; his being able to see importance in what might look ordinary and mundane to others;  his having been an undergraduate history major.

But, I believe, that fundamental was his love of WORDS.  Milburn understood the truth of the saying that "all words are pegs to hang ideas on".  Today as we gratefully remember this beloved 'wordsmith', we can follow the advice of the long-ago German writer, Goethe:  'Be generous with kind words, especially about those who are absent'.

 I first met Milburn in the mid '90's when I was minister in the nearby village of Coleridge and would occasionally drop by The Chatham News to visit with my 'baby brother', the then Editor.  Right away I knew that this new man on the newspaper staff was a real Kar-ak-ter (in a good sense) with his stories of dumpster diving, yard sale bargains, and ability to stretch a dollar bill so far that the Eagle would scream.  It was evident that he knew something about a lot of things and could talk with anyone about most any  topic. He spent many hours in a labor of love writing and    editing a book about the now defunct Staley school in that nearby town.   And I still have (unread, alas) a book he passed on to me, Baseball with a Latin Beat.

Our friendship found a new venue when I came to this town in   2001, and especially when our favorite cafe, Mina Bena's, was here.  Friday night dinners and Saturday morning breakfasts became regular events for a group of friends.  One of our mutual friends remembered how Milburn, Dominique Metreaud, and I would frequently get into punning matches.  The uninitiated try to assert that 'puns are the lowest form of humor'.  We knew otherwise, believing the truth of the Yiddish proverb that  'a wise man hears one word and understands two'.  Or, as someone else wrote, 'punnery is largely the trick of compacting two or more ideas within a single word or expression' , making it a 'rewording experience'.  Anyway, we carried on with great energy and zest, perhaps to the consternation of those around us.  Milburn held a PhD in Punning. Lala recalled years later that these pun-a-thons seemed to become his favorite Saturday morning pastime.  While not exactly a 'word game', Trivia was another pursuit in which he excelled.  Maybe that degree in History from Chapel Hill whetted his appetite and excellence here  as well.

As a former History professor, I know that the subject most comes alive when approached not as trivia but as STORY.   So, I find it no surprise that with his felicity with words,  Milburn knew how to tell a good story.  Now, I have seen the title for Bob's comments, A Good Story, but not his notes, so there may be the risk for some repetition here, but I'll take it.  Ernest Hemingway supposedly remarked that he wrote because he knew a lot of stories and wanted to tell them.    The same could have been said for Milburn.  In his review of the Staley book, Bob wrote of our friend: 'Coming to writing later in life has given voice to a pent-up store of words and stories. There seems no end in sight as he tells the story of the common man with the detail it deserves and in so doing weaves a rich tapestry of life.'  Warren Dixon who published the book noted that 'Milburn Gibbs is the consummate story teller, a connoisseur of creativity.'

We who regularly read his column knew that his favorite topic  was Lala.  When writing about his being overcome with tears of joy during their wedding ceremony, he facetiously noted that the vows could have been addressed to 'sobster and wife'.

On the occasion of his 75th birthday, my wife and I  wrote a poem of sorts.  Rhyming and meter are not my strong suites, but anyway, herewith, An Ode to Milburn Gibbs:

    There once was a writer named Gibbs
      Whose scribblings, while glib, told no fibs.
   At the Chatham News,
       he never took a snooze.
  His prose was at its best when he was  
       At Liberty
    'cause he wrote it 'delibertly'.
  When young, he was a baker
    with his hands in the dough.
  When he made his fortune, he said,
     'I'll bake no 'mo',
      'cause my heart pines
        to return to  Caroline'
  Now he has reached Seventy-Five,
    So we'll tell you no jive
HAPPY  BIRTHDAY, OLD FRIEND !!!

While Milburn was not a  'religious person' in a conventional sense, these strong words seem appropriate for this occasion:  Romans 8:31- 13, 37-39 , and, in keeping with what I believe the point of Saint Paul's words, 'not even Alzheimer's can separate us from God's love.'  " 

We could use more kind-hearted souls like Milburn !
      Satchel

    

"TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME"

Can this be true ?  The Red Sox as of today are in first place in their division?  Oh, well, too early to get excited about their prospects. . . too much Red Sox history of disappointments.  I was bitten by the Red Sox 'bug' many years ago when a student at Boston University, having cut a class in Church History to see Ted Williams in his next to last game.  Now with three World Series Championships within the past 12 years a bit of the historic pain has been assuaged.

In the meantime, there is baseball at a different level and there are those who would maintain "at a purer level", i.e., the Minor Leagues and various categories of the 'non-professional', those who play it for the sheer fun .

In the late 1980's my cousin, Tommy,  pitched for a minor league affiliate of the New York Mets.  HIs team occasionally played in the city where I then lived and he would always provide complimentary tickets.  On one occasion, he was the winning pitcher in a game there and I realized that despite my love of the  game this was likely the only  time that I would see the family name in scoreboard lights.

"If they don't win, it's a shame . . ."

When a child, my grand-son Taylor enjoyed singing, "Let me   woot, woot, woot, for the home team. . ."

A few weeks ago, along with colleagues and friends, I attended a game of the local Class A-Advanced affiliate of the Chicago White Sox.  It was fun to watch the home runs but they lost.  Nearby, the Single A affiliate of the Miami Marlins has consistently provided good baseball and good entertainment.  Recently, Miss Babe Ruth retired after several years of retrieving bats, delivering balls to umpires, and playing post-game 'fetch'.  A black Lab Retriever, she has been succeeded by her brother, Master Yogi Berra, and niece, Miss LouLou Gehrig.  (Check her out on You Tube.)

"The moment of Truth . . . "

When it comes to athletic "heroes", I prefer to find mine on a more local level.  Four of my wife's grand-nephews play on  county recreation league teams and we anticipate attending their upcoming games.  Ten year old Ian who views us as surrogate grand-parents is developing into a very talented baseball player, equally adept as pitcher, catcher, shortstop and hitter.  Last week-end he had his first ever over the fence home run, having hit an 'in the park' home run the week-end previously.

Ian steals home

My late Uncle Ken was an overpowering pitcher in his youth.

Having played in the minors, he acknowledged in his later years that every Spring, he 'got the itch', meaning he would have relished the opportunity play once again.  I never progressed beyond high school athletics but I played first base well enough to enjoy the games.  Like Uncle Ken, I still 'get the itch' at this time of the year.

"Once upon my time . . ."

"Play Ball"

Satchel

'"SHOESHINE, MISTER?"

   This shoe shine box was my "office" as I made my first foray into entrepreneurship.  Our dad had built it in high school shop class many years earlier.  My brother and I guess it to be about 90 years old now.

      Throughout his life dad always maintained a high gloss on his 'dress shoes'.  He often admonished his sons that regardless of how well- dressed someone might be, if the shoes were scuffed and dirty, well... they just were not actually well-dressed.  As I write this, I touch memories of Saturday night shoe shines as we prepared for next day's church attendance. My almost 68 year old 'baby brother' maintains that he used it when shining his older brothers' shoes for their high school dates.

     Back to the entrepreneur-ing.  Around the age of  ten or eleven, wanting to earn additional money, I applied for the job of  shoe shiner at Mr. Lewter's barbershop.  (In our area at that time, barbershops had a virtual monopoly as the place to receive such service.)  Mr. Lewter  told me that Charles G. currently had the job but had not been there for several weeks. (The 'work week' was Friday afternoon after school and all day on Saturdays.)  Then he added that if Charles did not come in 'tomorrow' ...Saturday... , I could have the job.  I asked if I could stay and shine shoes that day for any customers that might want that. 'Yes'.  Well,  I had a few customers.  Charles apparently learned of all that and came to the shop the following morning.  Whereupon, I took the above box, well stocked with tools of the trade, and set up my business across the street in front of the dry cleaning plant owned by dad and my uncle.  Unlike Charles's experience that day, my business 'boomed' and by the end of the day, he 'resigned'.  The following week, I was in my new 'office' and remained there until I was hired to work in the new 'supermarket' that came to town.






    Unlike the Chattanooga Shoe Shine Boy (of the song by that title) who "charges you a nickel just to shine one shoe", I remember my fee being 25 cents.  Mr. Lewter provided the space free, so on a given week-end I could earn a respectable income.  I suppose his rationale --beyond his kindness to an enterprising kid -- was that having a shoe shiner in his shop was also 'good for business'.  It has been a long time  since I had a professional shoe shine and have no idea the current cost but likely it is in the range of what an inexpensive pair of shoes might have cost in the late 1940's.

   When Mr. Lewter moved his shop to a more spacious locale, I also had a larger 'office'.  Only once did I have an unpleasant customer experience.  On a rainy Saturday, Charlie Gray, a local 'jack-leg preacher' (according to the Oxford English Dictionary:
 "incompetent, unskilled, unscrupulous, dishonest. Frequently used of lawyers and preachers.") asked that I shine his shoes.  When I had finished, this physically large man said, "Son, it's raining outside. You don't want to charge me a quarter, do you?"  He gave me 15 cents. I felt intimidated, by his being an 'adult' and by his size. Today, we might call this behavior 'bullying'. I prefer 'grandiose'.  This same man said to dad, the dry cleaner, that since  he (Charlie) was a minister, dad ought to give him a reduced rate for cleaning his clothing.  Whereupon dad ended that claim of specialness by informing Charlie that it cost dad as much to clean his clothes as it did anyone else's.

    A few years later, when our family moved to a new town and dad began his career with Metropolitan Insurance Company, my brother launched his own  'business career' shining shoes in our uncle's shop in the nearby mill town.  He claims little remembrance of that time other than the shop's lack of indoor plumbing, necessitating considerable resourcefulness in seeking alternatives.  

    The Chattanooga Shoe Shine Artist allegedly could also 'make the oldest kind  o' leather look like new' through his virtuosity in snapping the cloth.  I never reached that level of artistry but I developed sufficient skills so that when I was a lowly army private, I could put an impressive 'spit shine' on my boots.  Only rarely, when in a rush, did I fall back on the prevailing trick of using a commercial brand deodorant pad that could produce a shine wherein you could see your face well enough to shave . . .  provided no water hit them and the sergeant was in sufficient hurry not to look too  closely.

    Wow ! If I had known that trick years earlier, I could have given Charlie his 'money's worth'.
       
    Satchel

     

MY GRAND-FATHER'S CLOCK

          "Mamma, Grand-pa  spanked me !" , I lamented, expecting consolation.
       Instead :"He told you to stop messing with the clock."

      Lest this sound like an acknowledgement of long-ago child abuse, perhaps a bit of context is in order.  

     My grand-parents had the above clock on the mantel of their dining room.  When I was 4 or 5  years old, the clock and its pendulum fascinated my youthful curiosity.  So, on one of our visits, when I thought the adults were occupied in another room, I relocated a chair to the mantel, opened the clock door and began to accelerate the movement of the pendulum.  That was great fun until the clock's proprietor happened to walk through the room and observed my game.  I complied with his instruction to come down and desist.  When I thought he had returned to the living room, I resumed my fun.  Suddenly, there he was again, reminding me of his earlier admonition.  Then followed some kind of corporeal 'stimulation' to the posterior.  Retrospectively, I doubt that there were many licks with any force.  Likely, the hurt was to my feelings that I, the eldest grand-son, would be so disciplined.  Never again did I "mess with the clock", however.

Grover and Verdona Cooper
Clock owners
Late 1940's

Early in their marriage

    Then in 1951, just after my 13th birthday,  both grand-parents died within a month. The siblings made the sorrowful distribution of their parents' worldly possessions.  I lobbied the adults for the clock, using the rationale that I somehow 'deserved' it because of my earlier 'trauma' (though I did not know that word).  Instead it went to my Aunt Rachel, their youngest child,  ten years older than I.  Intermittently over the 65 years since then, I told Rachel that if she ever chose to dispose of the clock that I wanted to renew my bid.  Though I have frequently admired it, I knew that there were valid reasons it could not be mine.  Until this past Thursday night . . . 

Rachel, The Clock and Me,  April 7, 2016

       My two brothers and wives and I had visited her, gone to dinner and then back to her home for lots of warm conversation.  Rachel is 88 years old and a 'Karakter' and Family Treasure unto herself.  Still she posed a challenge to our decorum with her pre-meal grace: "Lord, Bless these Nephews and Neices and help them to behave."

    Back at her house, midway through the conversation, she suddenly said , "I have something I want to give Ron [me]" and disappeared into her kitchen. She returned with the clock and told us that her children had agreed that I could have it.  Seldom am I at a loss for words but in this moment, I could only manage , "Thank you !"  Gratefully, my sister-in-law, Shirley, had the presence of mind to record the moment.

      Then came an unknown piece of family lore.  She told us that her parents had received the clock from her paternal grand-parents.  She was uncertain as to whether it had been as a wedding gift (they were married in the early 1900's) or upon the occasion of her grand-parents' deaths.  At any rate, it is OLD.  And, it keeps perfect time, striking the half hour and hours.  (I attempted to insert a video of the striking.  Guess that's a tekky challenge for another time.  But then, the original owners didn't have computers and video. )

       I removed the current 'read' from the chest in order to take the above picture. Later, I thought it how appropriate to have left it there. The title: The Time of Our Lives.

    Satchel

NOT A JOKE . . .

             Initially, I thought it a bad April Fool's joke when I read about it yesterday.  Then I learned that it was for real.  There is apparently a Bill pending in the Tennessee State Legislature that would allow mental health counselors to refuse to treat persons with belief systems different from their own.

     One Tennessee legislator reportedly told a television station that "the bill is aiming to reinforce the First Amendment by protecting the religious rights of counselors, allowing them to refer a patient elsewhere."

     As a professional mental health counselor, I know that such a practice violates the American Counseling Association's Code of Ethics that stipulates that professional counselors may not refuse clients based on "age, culture, disability, ethnicity, race, religion/spirituality, gender, gender identity, sexual orientation, marital/partnership status, language preference, socioeconomic status, immigration status, or any basis proscribed by law."

    And, the American Association of Pastoral Counselors (of which I have been a Clinical Fellow) asserted that "we avoid imposing our beliefs on others, although we may express them when appropriate in the pastoral counseling process."

    I am in practice with an organization that offers 'faith-integrated' therapy. . . rather different  from 'faith-based'.  When meeting with a new client, I indicate that I consider myself a 'pastoral counselor' (as a retired United Methodist minister).  What that means for them is that if matters of belief and practice are topics that they want to include in our conversations, then I am 'at home' with the vocabulary and experience without our having to agree on matters of interpretation and that their positions are treated with respect.
However, if matters of faith, etc. are peripheral or irrelevant to them, then I am a Licensed Professional Counselor Supervisor and able to "walk in both worlds".  Currently, my clients span a broad religious ( and political) spectrum :  Pentecostal,  Black Muslim, Protestant ministers of several denominations and theological viewpoints, Roman Catholics, a former cloistered monk, as well as agnostics, 'nominals' and 'indifferents'.  Because our sessions are not for theological debate, I work with clients' own belief systems as a resource to help them gain clarity on their therapeutic 'issues'.  If pressed to define/describe my faith perspective, I doubt that many of my clients would be able to do so.

    'Evangelism' (some might say 'proselytizing') as a process to bring someone else to one's own faith perspectives and interpretations is a long practiced form of 'ministering'.  But not, I believe, in the counseling relationship.  Stated plainly, evangelism is not my ministry.  And, many of these  so-called' religious freedom' bills carry a huge agenda of discrimination and mean-spiritedness.

     I looked up the definition of 'minister' in an on-line dictionary. Among the meanings that I found, I particularly liked this one: "You don't have to be religious to minister.  When you minister to someone, you take care of them."

    Fred Craddock died recently. He was a Protestant teacher/preacher extraordinaire.  He told the story of when Rear Admiral Thornton Miller came to his college when he was a freshman.  Miller had been a military chaplain at D-Day in Normandy.  He told Craddock and some of his friends about how he had gone from soldier to soldier --- some screaming, crying, dying --- attempting to offer comfort and prayers.  As Craddock told the story: "Someone asked . . . 'Why did you do that?'
  His answer: 'I'm a minister.'
  And the person began again, 'But didn't you ask if they were Catholic or Protestant or Jew?  Did you just . . . I mean, if you're a minister . . .'
  Now get this. Rear Admiral Miller said, 'If you're a minister, the only question you ask is, 'Can I help you?' "  (Craddock Stories, p.137)

    Satchel

" BE SERIOUS ! "

        "Writer's Block" !  Isn't that the term to use when 'the juices' are not flowing ?  Or, maybe they are 'flowing' but the direction of the flow seems 'off course' or the content carries slight substance and significance in the face of all the 'heaviness' that prevails.

    Occasionally, these 'mutterings' have tilted toward (for me) serious topics.  Usually, however, 'musings' and 'meanderings' have been the typical entries with heavy doses of retrospectives.  Recently, levity and such have sounded discordant.

     First, there is Lent ... a time of preparation for Easter, calling for rigorous self-examination . . .for those who consider themselves seriously within the Christian tradition.  While I hear less of the "What are you giving up for Lent?" motif than formerly, the Forty Days carry a solemnity that can permeate many routines.

    Then, there is the rancorous tumult  within American politics and much of society.  As an academically trained historian, I am aware that there is a long-standing, somewhat subterranean strain that periodically erupts in what the late Professor Richard Hofstadter called The Paranoid Style in American Politics.  However, after several years of steady decline, basic civility and concepts such as compromise for the common good have been seldom practiced in recent months. It is sad !

   "Bad Things" happen . . . and often with a randomness that defies understanding. Within the past couple of weeks, I learned of the death of a high school classmate in a bizarre kind of automobile accident.  "It shouldn't have happened"; but he is dead.  Yesterday, my wife learned that her 30 year old niece has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer.  Events like these can leave us wondering . . . "Why?" . . . and glib  'answers' do not satisfy.

    Dad frequently  admonished that "there is a time and place for all things".  I had thought that he coined that phrase until I read Ecclesiastes.  Being serious in the face of tragedy and sadness is 'timely' and appropriate.  Yet, Mark Erelli's lyrics from Passing Through resonate: "Sometimes injustice and indifference are the only things I see but I refuse to let my hope become the latest casualty."  There is much that goes beyond my own understanding.  Here at the beginning of Christian Holy Week, I look for clues in the progression from Palm Sunday through Good Friday to the MYSTERY   of Easter and resurrection and new life.

    I have never been inclined towards what is sometime called 'proof-texting' as a kind of facile way of 'proving' one's point by citing a Biblical reference.   But there are generations of affirmations for the Psalmist's assertion that        " weeping may last through the night, but joy  comes in the morning". (Psalm 30:5)  

    There are times not to be serious; and times to be serious.

          Satchel

    

Phone Booths and Pay Phones

   Yogi Berra advised that we can observe a lot by just looking.
Today in a nearby town, I approached an intersection where I have often travelled without heretofore having seen the above sign.  For safety reasons I did not exit my automobile to take a close up, so I will "read" for you what is on the sign: 
      "25c per minute . . .
        LONG DISTANCE
        ANYWHERE
        ANYTIME "

      I suppose that earlier there had been a telephone booth nearby.  Once located throughout the landscape, 'phone booths and 'pay phones' have largely disappeared. (Where does Clark Kent go to don his Supertogs?)  In 1954, one of those sanctuaries was located inside a drug store across the street from where I had an after school job.  At church camp that Summer, I had been smitten (as the old folks said) by a girl who lived 30 miles away.  Having no 'wheels' of my own to go visiting, I spent considerable time in that booth.  Today, we would have Skype or FaceTime available. . . which is one reason for the demise of the phone booth . . . but I get ahead of the story.

    And 25 cents per minute was considered typical.  A call from my hometown (where the sign was seen) to the town where I now live (15 miles distance) cost a flat fee of 25 cents for the first minute and additional fees thereafter. In the 1950's that was a chunk of change (literally) for a high school student.  So, a 'LONG DISTANCE CALL' was a big deal.  So was receiving such a call.

    By the time my younger brother arrived at UNC Chapel Hill in the mid-to-late 1960's, dorms had pay phones on each hall.  Not so in my undergraduate days ten years earlier elsewhere.  There were ten two-story dorm sections and an extended third floor, altogether housing perhaps 250 guys, with ONE telephone in the entire building.  Furthermore, the phone was located in Center Section lounge, which was seldom occupied. If someone happened to hear the ring and answered, then the intercom would resound with "So and so, you have a call in Center Section".  If you were away from the dorm at that time , well . . . .

    In the adult world, long distance calls were often considered a harbinger of ill news, almost making the world stop. Expense and inconvenience were factors.  A friend told of calling collect to his North Carolina home from Fort Benning, Georgia, only to have his Grand-mother refuse to accept the call because of the perceived expense.  Likely, he had called from a phone booth similar to the one just outside the barracks at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, where I did Basic Training in the Summer of 1962.  Getting access to that 'phone required great patience as there was often a waiting line.

   And, direct dial ?  No such convenience.  "Number, please" was the response when we dialed "O" for Operator.  Even on operator assisted calls, there were often extended waits as the call had to be patched through several exchanges.  Finally, when the other person answered the call, the operator would direct, "Please insert 25 cents" [or more, depending on the distance called].   And, just as the conversation would get started, "Please insert another ____ cents."  How did she know that 'time was up'?  Was she eavesdropping?  Other than perhaps a nosy operator, at least there was the absence of party lines, 2-4 other families sharing the same line and one knew that there was no such thing as a 'confidential conversation'.

   For the traveller away from home, pay phones were how we connected.  Theoretically, each phone booth also had a local directory.  In reality, it was a good idea to have recorded the number(s) one wished to call because often vandals had shredded the 'phone book', as it was called.

     While all this occurred in the not-so-distant-past, it seems like 'ancient history' or bad fiction to a generation seemingly born with one of these in hand:

        No need here for elaboration on the multiple ways cellular phones (aka Smart phones) have changed our lives.  However, I still have difficulty comprehending how friends and family can be (almost literally) half a world away and we not only speak in 'real time' but see each other simultaneously .  Good grief, if Face Time had been around in the '50's, I would have had to use an extra  dab of Brylcreem to impress her.

     Satchel