Who's Going To Fill Their Shoes?

Country music legend, George Jones, released his version of this hit song in the mid-1980s. In it, he sings of the greats of country and western music that have died and laments that there may be no one to fill their shoes. I keep thinking about writing Ross' Book of Lamentations, but it would be too long and too boring to be worthwhile. Instead of doing it all in one big gulp, I've decided to gnaw around those lamentations once in a, hopefully, rare while. I lament the fact that we are losing our oral traditions and it seems that our written traditions may not be far behind. The Library of Congress (or maybe it is the Smithsonian, I forget which) is working on recording interviews with both the common and great people of our country, which seems to me to be a lot like saving one starfish at a time, better than nothing, but not saving a lot of starfish just the same. I think that the time would be better spent building front porches and re-enacting Blue Laws. I read (soon to become a lost art as well) that schools are tending to no longer do annuals / yearbooks. The cost is too high it's said. Tomorrow evening, four of my friends and I are going to get together over beers and share '62 and '63 annuals from each of our high schools. How can you put a price on the enjoyment that will create? What will today's graduates pull out to share when they reach our age, a 50 year old computer file? If there isn't enough money to print annuals, run a campaign to have each high school student take just one step back in the service level of their personal cell phones. I'll bet that would pay for an annual or two! In the years before I left home, Sunday morning was reserved for church and Sunday afternoon was spent visiting at the home of my grandparents. The house had a porch and a fireplace. In warm weather, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends all gathered on the porch and talked of daily news and recounted past stories, some of them many times over. If the weather was too cold for the porch, the crowd gathered in the room with the fireplace. The children played or read in the corners and the adults circled the chairs near to the fire. I heard war stories, depression stories, hard work stories, and sometimes stories that would make me blush and wonder about what "those" words really meant. Those days are gone. I don't think my children and grandchildren would want to sit on our front porch, assuming we had one large enough, and hear us reminisce about Viet Nam, long waits in gas lines, the horror of a front page headline shouting that college students had been killed on campus by our own National Guard. No one wants to hear of racial shootouts in downtown Greensboro or hear that Watts and other blighted urban areas were burned to the ground by people who were so frustrated by their lives that they knew no other way to show it, or where we were when we heard that President Kennedy had been shot and killed, or what we felt when we heard Martin's "I have a dream" speech. No one wants to hear about hundreds of textile and steel plants shutting down and Sara and I put out of jobs more than once. No one cares about student protests that shut down campuses, and fears of race riots so high that many cities imposed total curfews. They wouldn't want to listen to old folks talk about the first man in space or the first to step on the moon's surface. The cell phone, iPod and iPad generation doesn't know what a party-line was or care how funny or aggravating it could sometimes be when multiple families used the same phone line. A couple of weeks ago, I had a great opportunity to sit quietly and listen to a Marine, now in his 80's, tell about being in the first wave to go ashore at Tarawa in the South Pacific during WWII. I was enjoying his stories and asking every question I could think of. I asked him if that had been the worst day in his life. He surprised me by telling me that going ashore on the first day of the Inchon landing in Korea had been worse because he had been wounded there. Wow! Two major battles in two major wars and here was a live and active participant in both. In 2009, I was able to become friends with one of the original Navajo Code Talkers. He could tell stories all day long and I could listen until he could no longer speak. My mother passed away last week. She used to tell us the sweetest story of where she and my dad were and what they were doing on VJ Day. I think that story will die with me and it won't be all that long until no one recognizes the term "VJ Day". My dad told a funny story on himself about being thrown from his cutting horse into a barbed wire fence while working on the family farm and ranch. The horse picked one cow to separate from the herd while my dad picked another. They parted company with my dad coming out the worst for the experience. Do you realize that they aren't even making western movies any more? My favorite thing to do in the whole world (remember my age!) is to listen to the stories of those I happen to meet. Everyone has stories, even the youngest of my friends, my desire is to always care enough to take the time to listen. If you haven't done it, try it, you'll like it too. Just be sure to do it before we are all reduced to having to twitter everything we say. God is good.

Ojo Del Tigre

Okay, the title of this blog entry is just me showing off. In English, it means Eye Of The Tiger. The Spanish version just sounds a bit more passionate and passion is what I want to talk about. I seem to do some of my best thinking after a sermon or discussion with my pastor and friend, Terry Matthews. Last Sunday, his sermon was from the Book of Revelations and he spoke about the passion of the church and its members. He set the sermon up in a way he does sometimes and I love it as far as catching and holding my attention. He talked about the picture, Rocky III. Since the time of Rocky II, Rocky, the reigning world champion, has become more famous, richer, and less passionate about winning. Early in the movie, he is beaten badly by a new, young challenger. His old nemesis, now friend, Apollo Creed, tells Rocky that he no longer has the "eye of the tiger"; that he has lost his passion for fighting and winning. Spoiler Alert: Rocky regains both the eye of the tiger and his championship by the end of the movie and Adrian still loves the old guy. Terry's point was that the Christian church must retain and grow its passion for love of God and service to Him. There is no neutral ground. A church grows or dies. It is not possible to separate the passion of a church from the passion of its members. Terry said it so much better than I am able, but I am in total agreement with him. I've also found that, when I get to know passionate members of God's church, they are passionate in other aspects of their lives as well. Take me, for example. I am passionate about the Washington Redskins, the Wake Forest Demon Deacons, and... oh yes, my wife, children and grandchildren. Passion certainly isn't a trait limited to Christians. I know Jews, Muslims, Hindus, non-Christian Navajo Indians, an atheist, and a Rasta who are passionate about life and about serving their fellow man. I hope to always find myself surrounded by those whose best joy in life is in passionate service. These eyes are nowhere as young as they once were, but if you look closely, I'm hoping that you'll see the tiger looking back. This morning, I'm wanting three things from this life. I want to never stop living it passionately. I want to travel. I want a big Labrador retriever (I'll name him Bailey after my uncle. My uncle is a big man with an even bigger loving heart just like the Labs I've been lucky enough to know.) God is good.

Never Set The Vacuum Cleaner Down In Dewy Grass!

September 16, 2010 marked the 44th anniversary of my marriage to my friend, confidant, nurse, cook, housekeeper, mother of my sons, and my legal lover (the time before the marriage is none of your business!) As such, I thought that I would take a minute to note a few things I've learned since I asked her if she would marry me. 1) You don't make your best impression if you propose over the telephone, half full of scotch, from a neighborhood bar. Sara and I were living hundreds of miles apart with her in North Carolina and me stationed in Philadelphia. I couldn't stand not being with her any longer so I reinforced my courage, got every quarter there was in the bar till for making the call, and as soon as she answered, said something super elegant like, "So, ya wanna get married?" I heard her make sort of a gagging sound and thought she might be getting sick, but she stayed on the line long enough to let me make her know that I was serious and to say "yes". As soon as we hung up, I filled the other half of me full of scotch. 2) Never tell a woman, with an iron in her hand, how to do your shirts. Marine dress shirts have three pleats in the back and two pleats in the front. Mind you, I didn't know how to iron them when we first got married, but I wasn't hesitant about telling Sara how they should be done. Sara had the ironing board set up in her parent's bedroom and her Dad and I were watching as she ironed my uniform for me. Like an idiot, I kept telling her how I thought it ought to be done. I noticed her Dad kept shaking his head at me, but I've never been too good at picking up subtle hints. Finally, Sara had had all she could take of my help. She slammed the iron down - hot side down! - on my shirt and said, loud enough for the neighbors to hear just so I wouldn't miss another subtle hint, "If you want the d&&med thing ironed, do it yourself!" Her Dad laughed until tears came out of his eyes and I don't think she's ever ironed another shirt for me since. The best I can recall, the scorch mark never came out of my uniform shirt either. 3) There is no satisfaction in arguing with a closed door. I have always been a get hot fast, take inappropriate action, get over it quickly kind of guy. Sara and I didn't know each other long enough before we got married (about 4 months total) to ever have a fight. After we got married and we had a DISAGREEMENT, I expected her to stand up like a man and fight back. Wrong! She just found a room - the bathroom in our first apartment, an efficiency, and later the bedroom - went in and quietly shut the door in my face. Where's the respect in that? I would shout for her to come on back out, that I wasn't through fighting yet. She would respond with nothing but silence. I never did find enough nerve to open the door and go in. 4) There is a big difference in morning people and those who are not morning people. I'm a morning person. I'll let you guess about Sara. The morning of our 44th anniversary, I jumped out of bed, slapped her on the butt, and said, "Good morning, beautiful. Happy anniversary!" She said, "umf" and pulled the covers over her head. After showering and brushing my teeth, so I know I smelled good, I went back into the bedroom, leaned over her in bed and said, "Happy anniversary. How about a kiss?" She said, "Go kiss the dog and leave me alone!", which is a lot for her to say before about 10 a.m. I'm sure she'll be much more passionate the morning of our 45th anniversary. 5) Never set the vacuum cleaner down in dewy grass. Sara and I spent our wedding night in my folks house. We were the only ones there, for any of you who are wondering. As a poor, young PFC of Marines, I didn't own a car, so I had borrowed my Dad's car to take on our honeymoon to the mountains. I got up early the morning following our wedding and took it upon myself to clean up the car before leaving. There must have been a bushel of rice in the car. Dad used to swear that he was still finding grains when he traded it six years later. The cord to the vacuum cleaner wouldn't reach to the driveway, so I pulled the car into the yard. I plugged in the vacuum and carried it out to the car. Being unmindful of the fact that the yard was soaked with dew, I set the vacuum down on the grass. Sparks flew and so did I. Sparks flew from my very short hair and I flew about 6 feet across the yard. I paid to have a professional do the rest of the car cleaning. I really thought I had gotten by with doing something so dumb. Sara hadn't noticed anything but the lights flickering inside. Later I found out that the neighbors across the street just happened to be watching out their front window. They told my Mom and Dad that it was the funniest thing that they had ever seen and that they laughed so hard that they almost wet their pants. I still have a real fear of using a vacuum cleaner. 6) I'll never love anyone else the way that I have and do love Sara. All kidding aside, and all of the stuff above really happened, I was so incredibly lucky. It's just a shame that it didn't work out that way for both of us.

An Island

At some time or another, we've all played the deserted island game. You know the one. If you are stranded on an island, what books would you want to have with you? If you are stranded on a deserted island and could select one person to have there with you, who would it be? I used to think I would like to have Angelina Jolie. Now I'm thinking that Betty White might be a better choice. Books would certainly be nice to have on an island, but I don't think that they would take the place of a human voice, body warmth, intelligent conversation (I'm sure that Angelina would be able to talk intelligently.) So, who would you want to be there with you? Okay, you say, "I'm a Christian. I would want another Christian there with me." So which Christian would you choose? How about a fundamentalist Baptist? Maybe a Unitarian Universalist? How about Pastor Terry Jones, the infamous burner of the Koran? Would a member of the Jeovah's Witnesses be your choice? Would it be a Mother Teresa type or a Christmas and Easter Christian? Do you think that a Christian just like you would be a generator of intelligent conversation? If so, maybe that would be your choice. I think that my friend, retired Baptist minister, Paul, would be high on my selection list. He and I are both pretty liberal. The conversation would probably not be very heated, but I'm sure we would figure out how to cure the world's ills through our love for our fellow man. My friend, Methodist minister, Eileen would be a good choice for me too. She directs an outreach mission working with Whites, Blacks and Hispanics, mostly poor, some documented and some probably not, but she doesn't care. I love her love of Christ and how that leads her to a career serving all of God's children. I have a couple of new young friends, Trish and Mustafa. Trish is a Socialist and an atheist. Mustafa is a Muslim. They are both young enough to be my grandchildren and I would be proud to be able to claim that relationship. I would love to be stranded on an island with either of them. Both of them, although they are not Christians, are heavily involved in advocacy for human rights. This isn't because of the big bucks they can earn, they just have XLG sized hearts. Would either of them be able to convert me from Christianity? Not in my lifetime. My love of Christ is too strong. On the other hand, maybe time with them would allow me to go and make disciples. At the very least, there would be some wonderful opportunities for the exchange of thoughts. Daniel Defoe placed Robinson Crusoe alone on a deserted island. It can be easily argued that Friday, a black man who couldn't speak English, saved Crusoe's sanity and probably his life. It is important to me to be able to remember, as I go through this life, that different just means different. It does not necessarily mean wrong or dangerous.