The Incredible Uniqueness of the Mundane

7/28/2019 The Incredible Uniqueness of the Mundane

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The Incredible Uniqueness of the MundaneTable of Contents

The Incredible Uniqueness of the Mundane....................................................... 3INTRODUCTION......................................................................................... 3On the Farm................................................................................................. 5Cotton Picking Time.................................................................................... 17Christmas Morning...................................................................................... 23My Baptism................................................................................................ 28Snow Days.................................................................................................. 33

Motorcycles and Evergreen Bushes................................................................ 38Leachvilles Gym......................................................................................... 46Grandma and Grandpa Down The Hills........................................................... 53Grandma and Grandpa Up The Hills............................................................... 58My Wife..................................................................................................... 67Good Times / Tough Times.......................................................................... 78Birmingham................................................................................................ 82Were Gointo Jackson (Tennessee that is).................................................... 94God Spoke................................................................................................ 110Homecoming............................................................................................ 1169/11/01..................................................................................................... 121Building Our House.................................................................................... 125Cheeze-its and Orange Soda........................................................................ 128Campfires, and Hide and Go Seek................................................................ 133Im Fat - What Happened?........................................................................ 137Where We Are Now.................................................................................. 143


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The Incredible Uniqueness of the MundaneINTRODUCTION

Routines: We all have them. Many determined souls try not to

have them, but in trying to avoid them, they wind up developing the

routine of avoiding routines. Im not saying that routines are bad;

having routines offer stability, the capability to plan, and something that

is steadfast in this world where change is, wellroutine. Life becomes

a machine and we are thrown into the hopper, spit out on the assembly

line, and carried through the stages of our day. Hours turn into days,

days to months; and months to years.

Although routine is not all together bad, sneaky dangers lay

waiting in routine. These dangers are silent and, over time, candesensitize the human spirit to the point where we miss opportunities to

allow our eyes to be opened in ways that permit our soul to breathe. In

those times, we are truly human and experience life as it should be.

Other times, we fail to see the miracle of the moment. Those fleeting

times whisk by and are so often missed. After theyregone, we wish we

would have taken the time to experience that moment more intensely.

Routineseem to be the grey paint that we allow to mask the vivid colors

of our lives.


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There is hope. Within the routine of our lives are those moments

that provide opportunity to pierce the grey. If we choose, these

moments can revive our soul with a flood of emotion that will imprint

these experiences in our memory forever. It is up to us to consciously

and purposefully take those times and refuse to allow complacency to

paint them grey; we must push back against the lure of routine that

desires to rob us of our miracle moment.

I want to share some of my lifes moments with you. Some

stories are short; some are a bit longer, but all have tremendous

meaning. These seasons and events span my life; from growing up in

and around the small country town of Leachville, Arkansas to my

current residence of Jonesboro, Arkansas. These are times when my

conscious seemed to be more aware. When I realized that I am alive.

During these times, my senses are sharp and I am acutely aware of

all that is around me. I believe that it is in these times when we come to

know who we are. We identify with the essence of humanity and the

awesomeness of the life- giving breath of God in our soul. It is in these

times that we know what God intended when He made us uniquely

human.


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On the Farm

When I was a child, we lived on Earl Wildys farm a couple of

miles off Highway 18 between Manila and Monette, Arkansas. At this

time, Mom and Dad both worked at the Wildys greenhousesjust down

the dirt road from our house. Our home wasnt that big, but it was big

enough for Mom, Dad, my brother, and me. It was situated with fields

in front and back, my aunt and uncles house was southof the house and

a fenced pasture across a dirt road was on the north side of our yard. A

big diesel powered water pump fed the rice fields in front of our house.

It was situated beside the pasture and ran all night long. I was so used to

falling asleep with the pump running that on the few times when it was

not, I found it hard to go to sleep.

I remember my dad buying me a Daisy BB gun when I was very

young; probably no more than 5 or younger. I wasnt old enough to hunt

so the BB gun was the only other option. I remember being out in the

front yard one afternoon hunting field birds with my gun. I saw this

black bird sitting high up in the tree. My gun was not too accurate. I

could see the shot come out of the barrel and make an arch. BBs are not

supposed to make arches! They are supposed to fly straight toward the

prey!


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I thought, Ill just sneak up on the bird; get right under it then

shoot straight up. It took me what seemed like hours to make my way

under the bird, but finally, I was there and ready to shoot. POP! I

shot The bird just flinched. I thought I had missed when several

seconds later the bird just falls out of the tree! I had hit my first bird!

However, I had not killed it. It was just lying on the ground looking

around.

Instead of shooting the bird again, I ran into the house and got

some gloves. I picked the bird up and was looking to see where I had

shot it. After a while of looking at it (and it looking at me) I found that I

had grazed the top of its head. When I brushed my finger over the top of

its skull, the skin pulled back and I could see directly under the feathers.

I thought that was just the coolest thing! Then, I felt sort of sorry for the

bird and thought, Im going to make him better! I went into the house

and got an old shoe box, some tape, peroxide, and some Band-Aids. I

immediately set up a MASH triage unit on our picnic table in the back

yard.

I realized that I had damaged the birds ability to fly. I pulled some

cotton off the stalks from the field behind my house and put in a box.

Then I sat the bird safely on the cotton. I took peroxide and put a few

drops on the birds head then bandaged him up. The bandage went all the

way around his head sort of like a bonnet.


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After he was safe and all doctored up, I found our shovel and dug

up some worms for the bird to eat and got some water for the injured

bird to drink. I know this sounds weird but I would cut the worms up

and poke them down its throat with a small twig then take a dropper and

give it something to drink.

I managed to keep that bird alive for 3 days. The wound was

healing and it had started trying to squawk. Then, one day, I came

outside and found feathers all over the place. I guess a cat had found it

and made supper (or breakfast) out of the bird. I was so mad that a cat

(or something) had eaten the bird Ihad tried to kill and then nurse back

to health. I know it sounds a bit ironic but I was only five or so. I can

still see the images of that bird with his head wrapped up in those

bandages and his black eyes staring at me. I dont think I ever shot

another bird with that gun. Not because I didnt try; the gun was just not

that powerful and I was not that good of a shot.

The Wildy family had a St. Bernard dog named Benchmark. He

met us every day after school ready to play. Gosh that dog was big! To

a young boy, he was huge! I remember my brother and I riding that dog

like it was a horse. He would tirelessly carry us around the house over

and over again. Sometimes we would wrestle around with Benchmark

and he would drool all over the place because, well thats what St.

Bernards do.. We didnt care though. He was our favorite buddy.


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One particular evening, our family was settling down for the night.

It was dark outside. Mom was in the kitchen as I remember, and Dad

was sitting in his chair cracking pecans in his tee shirt. I remember a

young man coming to the door and Dad talking to him through the

screen door. He said, Sir, I think I might have hit one of your cows.

Dad went out to look but it wasnt a cow; he had hit Benchmark.

It was terrible. Benchmark had walked out in front of that car and there

was nothing the guy could do. We called David Wildy who was

Benchmarks owner, and the next day; just like that; Benchmark was

gone.

Even today, when I close my eyes, I can still see that huge white

and brown face and those kind droopy eyes of his. Man! That dog was

ugly; but he had such a gentle nature. I spent hours walking down dirt

roads, sitting under the trees in our yard or beside the house by the gas

meter just talking to that dog. He was an amazing friend and would

never judge... just listen, then lick.


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The farm was a great place to be a kid. My pre-teen years were

mid- to- late 70s. Buffalo ditch was just north down the road in front

of our home with nothing but farm land and treed fence rows lining its

banks. I could see someone coming a mile away because of the dust

their car would blow up as they drove down those dry dirt roads. My

uncles familylived in the house beside the wooden bridge that crossed

Buffalo ditch just south of the bridge. Once on the bridge, I could look

down the road another mile and see my other Aunt and Uncles house.

When I was a kid, the water flowed in Buffalo ditch and I would

spend hours fishing off the one lane rickety old wood bridge talking to

people as they crossed. Many times, it was no more than, Catchin

anything? Or Havin any luck? I would show them what I had

caught or just say, Nawnot much.. They would go on and I would

get back to fishing.

Those were good times; especially about the time the sun went

down just before the mosquitoes came out. The water would get calm

with the occasional splash of a jumping fish or bull frog hopping in the

water. About dusk, the calm air would be filled with the sounds of a

distant lone Killdeer somewhere in the fields around me and the horde of

cicadas in the trees that lined the waters edge.


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If the fish were not biting, I would find myself making my way

down the steep reed packed bank via the narrow path that we made.

There, I would look for crawdads off the small sandy bank or try to

knock the turtles off logs with rocks that I would bring with me. Then,

as always, just about dark, I would make my way past my Aunt Diane

and Uncle Boyces house on myway home. Mom knew where I was; I

would always tell her before I walked out of the house. Goin fishin..

In return, I would hear, Be carefulbe back before dark!

Of course there were things that could bite or sting. There was

always the risk of falling off the bridge or cutting a hand or foot, but --- I

really didnt think of those things that much. I didnt worry about being

alone on the bridge or strangers showing up. Growing up there, I

learned what to look for and where not to go due to the countless times I

was instructed by my Dad. I guess subconsciously he taught me to

always be looking and watching.

At the time, it was just another day on the bridge thinking about

whatever came to mind; not really having an agenda or anything to do

other than watch the schools of shad swim by or throw rocks at the

occasional snake that would dare to cross from one side to the other. I

would watch as the sun set over the trees and observe in wonder as a

school of gnats would move in unison through the air.


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As I look back, I can see the importance of sitting. I can see value

of the blank agenda of a seven year old boy. Of course, I had chores to

do around the house and things for which I was responsible. At the

same time, there was always time to day dream and let the country day

have its fun with my imagination.

The ditch doesnt flow anymore and the old wood bridge has been

replaced by a concrete one. The old paths that led to the rivers edge

have long disappeared. There are very few trees that line the ditch

anymore; at least not like I remember as a kid. I guess this is one of the

reasons that memories like these are so precious. I remember them like

they were yesterday as I find myself wrapping up in them like a warm

blanket on a cold day.

When I think back to times on that bridge, I see the flowing water

as it seemed to disappear into the banks just where the ditch turned a

corner. The bridge ran north and south so I would always sit facing east

until the sun dropped into the tree line. Then, I would turn and sit facing

west and watch the sun slowly disappear through the trees. I can almost

feel the cool breeze coming up from the water as a welcome change to

the heat of the day. Sometimes I think God put that bridge there just so

I could watch the sunsets.


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The Bird Hunt I Remember the Most

Fall brought a whole new set of things to do. I remember waking

up Labor Day weekend to the sound of shot guns blasting and gun

smoke hovering close to the ground in front of the tree line as the sun

came up. It was dove season and the country was the place to be. I

remember the first time I went hunting with my dad. I took my 410

single shot and we nestled down in the reeds between a Milo field andthe ditch. It was awesome!

As the morning sun gave its light and the sky was turning from

black to blue, I would see those dove appear in the distance flying over

the fields on their way to water. I watched as my dad would pop up out

of the reeds and shoot that huge 12 gauge shot gun and down came the

birds.

It was on the cool side that morning. I remember several other

hunters out that day; many of them I knew and some I didnt but we

were all there for one reason birds! It seemed like that whole field

road was a puff of gun powder smoke from all the shells being fired.


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That smell will always stay with me as will the memories of that

day. My heart was pounding out of my chest as I would run out there to

get the birds and put them in our sack. I cant remember ifI shot a bird

that day or not. I just knew I was with my Dad and that was all that

mattered.

As time went on, I out grew the 410 and started taking my dads 12

gauge hunting by myself. Dad and I still go hunting together to this day.

However, now I get to take my boys with us giving them the memories

to someday put down on paper as I am doing now. Its hard to express

the satisfaction and pride I feel as I see my kids walking and talking with

my Dad as we make our way toward an old pecan grove or along side a

fence row just waiting for a rabbit or a bird to take off. Sometimes I

purposefully lag behind just so I can watch them walk together and

know that sometimes the BEST things never change.

Even though my dad is getting older and cant get around as well

as he once could, he still loads up whenever he can (sometimes he goes

even when he shouldnt) and takes off with us. Now that Im a dad I

realize that its not really about what we shoot or what we dont shoot.

It just about being together; walking and talking about whatever comes

to our mind. Its about unplugging from everything and stepping outside


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tobreathe. Its about finding myselfwanting to be the dad my father is

to me; and about my boys wanting to someday be the dad I am to them.

The good thing about living in the country is that a kid could step

out his front door and find a good place to hunt in a few minutes walk.

I remember one winter day. It was a weekend and there were a couple

of inches of snow on the ground and more falling. I got on my insulated

coveralls, gloves, boots, and mask then headed outside. As always, I

would tell mom that I was going hunting and she would tell me to be

careful and be back before it got dark.

This particular day, there was a slight cold wind blowing and the

sky was battleship grey. As I walked along the ditch bank and started to

look for rabbit tracks, I remember a huge sense of awareness. I stopped

and looked through the falling snow, across the field where I saw my

house in the distance. My nose was running and I was breathing a little

hard. I remember my face getting warm as I would breathe out my

mouth into the full face toboggan. The warm breath would warm the

knit over my mouth and cheeks then turn to fog as it hit the cold air.


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It was a lot harder to walk in the snow with all those clothes on and

carrying a heavy gun. I put my gun down and just stood there. It was so

calm and quiet I could hear the snow hitting the bare cotton stalks. I

looked down at the water in the ditch and it had started to freeze up on

the edges. The only movement came from sparrows darting from limb

to limb. I realized that not only was the sky grey, but the whole

landscape was grey as well.

Then, all of a sudden, I felt this overwhelming sense of being

alone, but not in a bad way. I was somehow a part of everything around

me. That nature had somehow let me in and I belonged there just as

much as those trees that grew along the narrow ditch bank, the water that

was trying so hard to find its way around the ice and down stream, or the

hard dirt I was standing on.

I was not even 13 years old, but I knew who, and what I was. Not

in the sense that I just realized I knew my name or that I was a boy, but I

knew that I was the son of good, hard working, and loving parents. I

knew that I had a multitude of people that loved me and cared for me. I

knew that I was an older brother, a country boy that could hunt and fish,

and at that moment, I believed I could be anything I wanted. I also knew

that I was expected to be honest and hard working, just like my parents;

and I was ok with that.


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It was standing in the snow on an old field row beside a half frozen

ditch that I caught my first glimpse of the character my parents had been

forming in me and I was proud to be who I was. I walked on after a

while; not really hunting but just shooting at whatever would fly up or

run by.

I really dont think I killed anything that day, but it seemed like I

walked until my legs were about to fall off. When I got home, mom was

there like she always was; the house was warm like it always was; and

things were good.

I guess there are times when God puts you in places where you can

think. Places where you can hear the snow hitting the brush along the

ditch and the wind howling in the trees. I didnt go out that day with the

notion of having a life changing moment. It just happened. These

moments always just happen. The trick is to be ready when they do.

I cant remember a lot about the day before or the day after. I just

know that at that particular time and at that particular place I was at

peace with myself. There was no other person within 2 miles of me, but

I was not alone. Even in the dead of winter, as I stood there on that ditch

bank, those things that looked dead somehow came alive and I knew it

I could feel it.


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Cotton Picking Time

The whole growing season was coming to an end. The farmers

were working way into the night getting the cotton and beans out of the

fields. Huge cotton pickers would rumble through the rows with

headlights on, slowly and methodically making there way from end to

end. The turbine on the front of the picker would strip the stalks clean

of the cotton and blow it into the huge back cage. As the cage filled up,

the huge machines would have to dump the picked cotton into the

trailers that were lined up at the end of each row.

When the trailers were full, they where hauled off to the cotton gin

where the cotton would be sucked out of the trailer, weighed, cleaned,

and processed. This was a busy time! Everybody was busy. The sides

of the gravel roads were lined with loose cotton that had blown out of

the trailers. Pickers were humming by on their way to the fields and

trucks were pulling loaded and empty trailers back and forth; it was a

fun time.


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I remember the first time my dad took me to the cotton fields

where my uncles were driving the pickers. It was after supper and

getting a little dark outside, but the pickers were still going. I had the

windows of our car down and could hear the familiar sound of the

killdeer. The air was filled with a combination of dust, cotton, and

machinery.

We pulled off the gravel road and onto the dirt field road where we

made our way to the trailers. Before we would stop, Dad would always

say, ok boys, roll yourwindows up. When we stopped, I remember

the dirt drifting by the front of the car. We always waited a little bit

before opening the car door so the dirt would have a chance to blow past

the car.

Some trailers were filled with cotton, some were full and others

were empty. I remember my dad asking if I wanted to jump around in

the cotton. I was a bit nervous because I had never done that before. I

had seen the farmers pull the pickers close to the trailers then that huge

bulging cage on the back would all of a sudden just lift up off the back

of the picker. As it tilted toward the trailer, the cage would open up until

the cotton would go tumbling out of the cage into the trailer.


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As most children do, I had a vivid imagination. I had never

tromped cotton before. My mind wondered how in the world I was

ever going to survive in the back of that cage with all that cotton being

blown on top of me as the picker went through the field. I had visions

of me standing there with cotton-boll husk being blown into my eyes

and no one being able to hear me screaming over the sound of the

picker.

Was I going to be pinned to the side of the cage as the hopper

filled up? Then dad said, go climb that ladder on the side of the trailer

and hop in! Then it all made sense! I was not going in the cage; I was

going in the trailer!

The trailers were made of mesh metal that stood about 10 feet tall

with a flat bed. The farmers loved for kids to come out and hop around

in the cotton. This would pack the cotton down for the farmers so they

could get more in the trailer which cut down on the number of trips they

had to make to the gin, and it was fun for the kids. When the pickers

were ready to dump the load of cotton, the kids would all move to the

front or the back of the trailer until the pickers had dumped their load.

Let me tell you, when that cotton dropped out into those trailers, the

whole thing would shake. It was great!!


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I remember my cousins coming out there and jumping in the cotton

with me. Oh, it was fun! Before long, I was standing on the edge doing

back flips in the cotton just like the older kids. We would have the

occasional cotton hull get logged in our pants or stalk in our shirt, but it

was worth it.

Yes, we could have fallen off the side of trailer and yes, there was

the danger of hitting one of the support poles of the trailer, but hey it

was fun and you knew to be careful. The older, more experienced

cotton trompers would make sure we didnt do any back flips close to

the support poles. After a while, you just knew the poles were in the

middle of the trailer and to do the flips off the ends toward the middle of

the trailer.

As it got later, my dad would load us back up in the car and we

would make the short drive home. Once there, we would have to strip

down and take a bath in order to get all the dust and grit out of our hair

before jumping into bed. It was good; life was simple and

uncomplicated; at least for a kid.


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I understand now that mom and dad had struggles and worries just

like all families do. Im sure there was always something going on.

But, when I was a kid, I never worried with those issues nor did mom or

dad make those issues known to me or my brother.

Sure, as we got older, we were more aware of those times that test

families, but as we were growing up, mom and dad made sure that kind

of stuff stayed between them. Our job was to be a kid; and we were

good at it. Mom and Dad never seemed to miss an opportunity to let us

experience those things that made being a kid in the country so

enjoyable.

There are those memories, like the cotton trailers, where I can look

back in my mind and pull out certain sites and smell and get flashes and

scenes from those days. Still today, while standing in my garden after a

rain, I can smell the dust and the memories of those dirt roads come

rushing back.

As I drive down those roads from time to time, some things have

changed and others have not. Like I said earlier, theres not as many

trees along the ditch bank as there once were. Buffalo Ditch doesnt

flow like it once did and the wood bridge has been replace with a

concrete one.


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However, the killdeer still cry and the gravel roads still sound the

same under my car. The summertime locusts still get so loud you cant

hear yourself think and the pickers still pick late into the night during

harvest time. Some things, I hope, never change.


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Christmas Morning

There were some events as a kid that made for sleepless nights.

One of those times was Christmas Eve. I know that it was hard on mom

and dad, but it seemed like every Christmas was better than the one

before. My dad would always have to give instructions on the correct

way to lay the silver tinsel on the tree. No Clumps Now! or Get two

or three strands and just lay it on the tree. There were some things that

just had to be done right and the tinsel on the tree was one of them.

Our living room was a rectangle with the front door at one end.

The TV was to the right and along the wall to the left was mom and

dads room. At the end of the same wall was the door to mine and my

brothers room. We had an awesome gas stove that sat on the wall in

the back of the living room before entering the kitchen.

There were the Throwers and the Layers. The throwers

were those that liked to get a hand full of tinsel and just fling it into the

air and let it fall on the tree like snow. The layers were thoselike my

dad; three strands and no more laid properly and evenly on each branch.Each could not stand the others method. This became the talk in our car

ride after coming from a home that had tinsel improperly positioned on

the tree.


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I remember on cold days before I would put my pants on, I would

lay them across the top of the big metal stove and warm them up a little.

At night that stove gave off a warm comforting glow that shimmered in

our room when we left the door open.

In the opposite corner of the stove was our Christmas tree.

Between the stove and the tree was the entrance to our kitchen and our

bookcase with our brown covered gold embossed full set of

Encyclopedia Britannica which were enshrined behind a glass door case.

We would always turn the Christmas tree lights off before going to

bed EXCEPT for one night a year; Christmas Eve. That night, we left

them on so Santa wouldnt trip on anything. To a couple of little boys,

that tree was packed with presents. Little rips in the corners of wrapped

presents were examined to the Nthdegree for some sort of clue as to

the contents. Boxes were shook and imaginations went wild.


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I remember one Christmas Eve, my brother and I wrote Santa a

thank you note and left milk and cookies out on the corner of the book

case just as we always did. We went to bed early that night and I

remember dozing off to the glow of the Christmas lights and the

flickering radiance of that gas stove. The only sound in the house was a

faint hissing sound made by the gas stove.

We never went to sleep soundly and on that particular night, I was

unusually thirsty went to the kitchen for water. I walked out my

bedroom door and into the living room. No Santa yet. I got my water

and went back to bed. A couple of hours later, I had to go the bathroom

(thats my story and Im sticking to it!). I did as I had always done

before. I got up, made my way out into the living room, and WOW!!!

There were presents laid all over the couch and a brand new air hockey

table sitting right where our coffee table used to be.

I looked over at the milk and cookies my brother and I left out

before we went to bed and believe it or not -- The milk was almost gone

and the cookies were just crumbs on the plate just as they always were.

Our note was gone but another was left in its place. It said, Thank you

so much for the milk and cookies. I loved them, Santa.


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It was 3:00 a.m. and I couldnt control myself. There was no way I

was going back to sleep now. I quietly went back to the bedroom and

woke my brother telling him that Santa had come. He sprang out of bed

and was just as amazed as I was.

We ran into mom and dads room and shook them until they woke.

They acted as if they had not been asleep very long. I wonder why?

Mom and dad never told us that it was too early to get up. They never

told us to go back to bed and wait for morning. SHOOT! IT WAS

MORNING!!

Mom would act surprised and immediately get up and start making

hot cocoa. They wouldnt let us open presents until everyone was in the

room and mom had declared, Ok! We can start Christmas. At that

point, paper and bows would start flying. We would grab a present and

see who it was for then call out their name. Mom would be in her robe

and dad would be in his chair with his tee shirt on. The house was filled

with laughter, hugs, kisses, and surprises. Mom would always kiss me

on the cheek and do that little giggle she does and say Youre

welcome and give me that little mmmmm as she kissed me on the

cheek.


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We have twin boys and even today, when they run up to my mom

and dad for hugs and kisses I can see the smile on their faces, see mom

squint her eyes, and hear that little giggle. I am reminded that what I tell

my kids was true for me as well. No matter where they go or how old

they areno matter what they do or sayThey will always and forever

be --- my little boys. Mom and dad never put it to me like that, but I was

assured of it with every hug and every kiss; with every word of

encouragement; and with every moment of discipline. Thats the way it

should be; and thats the way it was.


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My Baptism

New Harmony Missionary Baptist Church was a small country

church a couple of miles from where we lived on the Wildys farm. It

had about seven or so pews on each side with an aisle down the middle.

The membership was mostly relatives of the Longs(my family) and the

Chipmans. We had about 30 or so that would come regular and fewer

than that on Sunday night.

Brother Harvey was our pastor. He was a good man and grew up in

the country just like we all did so he knew the hardship and struggles

that would come up from time to time. He was a bigger man and would

always wear a suit and jacket. Instead of saying, Uh in between

words and phrases like some people do, he would say, Aer-ah.

Actually he said that a lot! But we didnt mind that was just him.

I cant remember the actual night I walked the aisle at New

Harmony Baptist Church and told Brother Harvey that I wanted to be

saved. I was so little my feet dangled off the pew. I wasnt old enough

to sit away from mom and dad yet so I sat between them most of the

time.


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When the message was over, as always, Brother Harvey would

stand in front of the altar with his Bible in one hand and his other arm

held out, asking people to come. I look up at mom and dad and pulled

them down to me and whispered to them that I wanted to go. I dont

think they believed me at first or maybe thought I wanted to go to the

bathroom or something. I tugged on their shirt and said I want to go

down there and be saved. I remember tears in moms eye as we walked

down that aisle.

New Harmony wasnt big enough to have a baptistry of itsown so

from time to time we would use Browns Chapels baptistry. I

remember the Sunday afternoon I was baptized. It was a fall day. I

know that because when I got out of the car the wind was blowing the

fallen leaves from the big leaf barren oak tree in front of the church.

It was afternoon because we had to get in and out before Sunday

night service started. It was the first time I had been in a church that

big. It could have held 200 or so people. That was pretty big for a small

town like Manila. I remember Doris Bandy was there. She was my best

friend Miles mother. There were a lot of people from our church and

other members of my family there as well.


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I can still remember Brother Harvey standing in that water with

me, putting that white handkerchief over my mouth and nose, and then

taking me under. When I came up, I looked out across that room and

saw smiling faces and they were all clapping.

I was only about eight or so and thought that was really cool. I

cant remember a lot about who all was there or the actual day. I can

remember the warm glow of sanctuary and how my life would change

after this event.

Its times like these that are markers along our way. They give us

points of reference in our lives. Did this or that happen before I was

saved or after? Or that was about the time that so and so was born .

These are the events that change our lives and help define it. All of us

have them even if we dont realize it. Some of these events are good

and some are marked with tragedy such as the death of a loved one or

the loss of a job. Good or bad; these times are branded in our mind and

memories. They influence how we do the things we do. They can

motivate us, inspire us, and be the catalyst for change in our attitudes

and actions.


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Sometimes all it takes is a familiar sight, sound, or smell, and all

the emotions and memories come flooding through our mind like a

tsunami. This tidal wave of feelings often gives no sign of its coming.

There is not a flashing sign that says, Warning Familiar Smell

Ahead. It is no respecter of reaction; it doesntreally care whether or

not these feelings bring back happy memories or feelings that will cause

great emotional distress.

The question is not if these events will occur or if they will

motivate or change us, but how will they affect us. Thats where

character comes in. My belief in Christ and the change He has made in

my life has produced, and is still producing, a character marked by love

and peace. Sure tragic events occur and they hurt. Events happen that I

wish would not.

At the same time, the lens with which I view these circumstances

and endure those tragic events allows me to let go and not internalize

them. My faith tells me that God is in control and His plans for me are

yes and amen. This lens projects the words, This world is not my

home. I can rest in the knowledge that some day, I will leave this

place and will find myself in my real home.


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So what are we to do? I believe we need to purposefully, and with

great resolve, make sure that we take every opportunity to breathe in

lifes moments that give us themost joy and contentment. It is true that

traumatic events will erect these monuments in our mind and there is

little we can do about those.

At the same time, we cannot allow monuments of tragedy to be

built on our toes, preventing us from moving forward! Their purpose is

not to promote bitterness or kindle hatred toward another. Their

purpose, as I see it, is to help us realize that with every tragedy, with

ever painful event, God is there and working all things for good; even if

we dont understand how.

We can also take charge of making sure the proportion of good

memories to bad is one that is skewed to the good. When we purpose

within our self to look within the mundane and make those moments that

were once overlooked, moments of sentimental memory, we skew the

good monument construction to our favor. We then begin to erect

multitudes of peaceful, joyous monuments to every bad one that we

might have.


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Snow Days

Snow days were the best. It hasnt changed much from when I was

a child. My twins, to this day, look to see if their school has decided to

cancel due to snow. The forecast can only contain the slightest chance

of snow and they start getting excited. THEN, if it actually does begin

to snow, this is when they really kick it into gear. They become

investigators extraordinaire. Websites are scoured as are weather reports;

the boys go to their schools webpage and look for any indication that

school will be out. All of a sudden, a report of snowfall becomes a

chance for a blizzard.

Now, when I was a child, my ability to track reports and get Intel

was limited to the local TV station, KAIT 8, as they would scroll the

school closings along the bottom of the screen. As the names of the

schools would slowly roll like a ticker tape across the bottom of our TV

screen, anticipation would cause my heart to pound as the names would

quickly start to appear in alphabetical order. Leachville was in the

middle of the pack so if the weather was bad, it took a while for our

name to appear. As the Ls would come and go, I was either jumping

up and down with joy or disappointed that other schools were out and

we were not.


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There was a time that is etched in my memory of a December

snow that started just about sundown and lasted through the night. At

that time, we had moved from the country into the sprawling

metropoliswhich is Leachville, Arkansas. Leachville is a small town

in North East Arkansas with a population at that time of 1,500 (I think

that included the cats and dogs). I used to say the town was so small that

Welcome To and Come Back Soon was on the same sign.

Leachville was so small it didnt have one single traffic light in the

entire town. We DID however, have a single screen movie theater, and

a couple of places to eat. Just like a lot of small towns in Arkansas, the

primary fall sport was basketball and the summers were filled with

baseball and softball on the two ball fields kept up by the city. Everyone

knew everyone as well as their business so news, good and bad, traveled

fast.

Our house was situated one block from the gym and in front of the

towns cemetery. We had a nice house. It wasnt that big but it was big

enough and bigger than the one we had in the country. AND - we had a

real street light located across the narrow paved road that lit up our chat

driveway and front yard.


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Our backyard had a homemade basketball goal that my dad had put

up for us, an old storage building, a couple of fruit trees, storm cellar,

and a porch swing. The inside of the house was normal. The living

room was rectangular and had a front door on one end and a big draped

picture window situated over our brown plaid couch. From the couch,

we could look right into the dining area and into the den through the

dining room.

On this particular night, there was no basketball game to go to or

no other activity on the agenda. Mom was cooking supper like she

always did and I cant remember if dad had made it home from work or

not nor can I recollect where my younger brother was. I do remember

that my attention was fixated on what was going on outside.

As I walked into the living room, I noticed that it was snowing

outside. I jumped on the couch and pulled the sheer drapes back and oh

it was cool. The snow flakes were as big as quarters and they were

coming down hard. I remember putting my face so close to the glass

that I would fog up the window. (Of course, after that came all the funny

faces and other drawings kids do on fogged up windows).


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I remember the glow of our brown gas heater and the faint hissing

sound it made as it heated up our living room. The TV was on, but I had

all but blocked it out. I was almost in a trance watching the snow fall in

the light of the street lamp. Our yard quickly became blanketed with

new fallen snow. It was so peaceful.

I quickly got on my boots and jacket and stood in our carport with

the light off. You could taste the cold air blowing. The night was so

quiet that I could hear the wind in the barren trees as the snow attached

itself to the branches. You see, in Leachville, when the sun goes down

and its around supper time, theres not much going on down on Ada

street.

I stood there and just looked at the quietness of the night. There

were no video games to distract me or anything else demanding my

attention. It was just me, the security of my home and family, the

darkness, and the night snow. Thats all thats all there needed to be.

I dont really know why that memory causes a tear to come to my

eye. Its not joy or pain. I guess I would have to say that I remember

the innocence and wonder of the simple things. I look back into my

memories and even after close to 40 years, that night is just as vivid to

me as if it happened yesterday.


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There was not much to it. I was standing outside in our carport

watching it snow. The whole event probably lasted no more than 15

minutes. But, within those few minutes, lies a moment in time that has,

for some reason, been etched in my memory. It is a monument that I

enjoy returning to and contemplating. When I look at it now, I dont

feel an overwhelming sense of joy or sorrow; pain or sadness. I just feel

--- as ease. And that is good.


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Motorcycles and Evergreen Bushes

It was a toss-up; a motorcycle or basketball camp. I really wanted

to go to basketball camp but I really wanted a motorcycle as well. It was

my birthday and mom and dad wanted to do something special that year.

I wanted a Honda XR-80. Yes, a motorcycle. When mom and dad

brought it home, I was truly beside myself. It was the most awesome

thing I was ever given as a kid. It was a dirt bike with knobby tires and

man, could it run!

I would ride that thing everywhere! One day, I was going to my

little league baseball game at the ball fields just one block from my

house. As a matter of fact, I could stand in my front yard in the summer

and hear the crowd in the stands when there were tournaments going on.

I had one obstacle between my house and my destination; the bulldogs at

the neighbors house on the corner of my street. It was right before I

had to turn left into the parking lot of the gym that led to the ball field

entrances.

I knew they were there. I just didnt know from where in the yard

they would jump me. I had a plan. When they came out after me, and if

I had to, I would cut beside the gym then cross the road into the

elementary school play yard. From there, I could out run the dogs!


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I started on my way. Just as I turned the corner, here they came.

Their ugly pug faces just gnarled up barking and nipping at my legs. I

started kicking at the dogs to get them away from me. I cut beside the

gym on my way to the safety of the playground. As I crossed the road

in front of the gym, BAM!!!

The next thing I knew I was lying in the huge evergreen bushes on

the corner of the elementary school play yard. I had been hit by a truck

and knocked off my motorcycle. It was summer time and there was

normally no one around the gym at that time of the day. I was struck by

one of my best friends dad. I felt so bad for him. Luckily he was not

going very fast or it could have been worse.

The girls coach was at the gym and came running out to help me.

They pulled me out of the bushes and on to the road. Yes onto the hot

asphalt. I dont know why they didnt put me on the grass. Anyway,

they took my helmet off and found several deep gashes in it. Had I not

been wearing my helmet, I wouldve had injuries far worse.

I dont know who it was that went to get mom, but when she got

there she just laid over me and cried. I remember coming in and out of

consciousness saying, mom, please get off me, I cant breathe. She

didnt of course and I would just go back out of consciousness.


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The nearest hospital was Jonesboro and with it, the nearest

ambulance service. So my buddys mother, Frankie, loaded me up in the

back of her Ford Escort wagon and off we went to Jonesboro Methodist

Hospital. As they were loading me up, another of my friends told me he

had taken my motorcycle and walked it home for me. They had put the

back seats down in the Escort wagon and loaded me up. I remember

waking to the sound of that little horn just honking. I kept asking, Am I

in heaven?Then, I would pass out again.

The next thing I remember, I woke up in the hospital room later

that night. Tim Bassing was my baseball coach and the preacher at the

local Church of Christ. He brought me the game ball with everyones

signature on it and a big GET WELL SOON poster with signatures. It

was great. They showed me my motorcycle helmet, my pants, and my

shoes. It was worse than I thought, but not as bad as it could have been.

Luckily, I only had a concussion, some bruised ribs, and a broken

leg. Other than that, all was well. I went home the next day and

couldnt move much. I would spend the rest of my summer break

healing. As time went on, I was able to get around pretty good using my

crutches. I could still move faster using my crutches than most of the

smaller kids could run. I would race them every chance I could get!


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I remember the first time I got chiggers in my cast. Even though I

had broken my left leg, I could still ride the motorcycle. It was sort of

bent in the middle but still ran well. I had to peel a bit of the cast off my

toes to change gears but a boy had to do what a boy had to do. I found

my way to Buffalo ditch to fish one afternoon when all of a sudden it

started pouring down rain. I had to get under the bridge until the rain

stopped. While under the bridge, I had backed up into the weeds under

the bridge. It was there that I got all the chiggers. Those little things

that bury up under your skin and itch like crazy. I did everything to stop

the itching. I used a ruler or a clothes hanger; anything that I could

shove into my cast to scratch with.

All was going good until I went back to the orthopedic that set my

leg. He took X-Rays to see how I was healing and said he was going to

take the cast off and put on a new one. The old one was put on when my

leg was still swollen so, as the swelling went down, the cast got looser

on my leg to the point that I could almost pull the thing off.


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It was a mixed blessing. I got the cast off and was able to look at

my leg for the first time since the accident. The cuts were healing but

still looked really bad and my leg was eaten up with chiggers. While I

had the cast off, he medicated my chiggers and said he was going to put

on a new kind of cast. This one would be fiberglass! I could actually go

swimming in this cast then I would dry it out with a hair dryer after I got

out of the water. It was going to be awesome except for one thing.

The X-Rays showed that when the doctor set my leg, it was not set

properly and the bones were offset. The doctor said that it might be

alright but I would probably be bow-legged or the bone might not be as

strong. So, they decided to reset my leg. What did that mean?

They first gave me the anesthesia originally given to me at the

hospital to knock me out. However, when the time came to re-break my

leg, I did not have the same reaction to the medication as I did at the

hospital. I was still conscious, a bit groggy, but still conscious. I

remember it like it was yesterday.

The walls were brown paneling and the table sat just to the left of

the door. The doctor came in and put a triangle piece of foam under my

leg and told me to hold on to the table. He turned his hands back and

forth over my leg like someone giving an Indian sunburn (if you dont

know just look it up). Then, without notice, he snapped my leg. I yelled


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as loud as I could. Mom was in the waiting room and I knew she could

hear me. The pain was to the point it almost made me pass out. The last

thing I remember before going to sleep was the doctor telling my mother

that she didnt have to worry about me cursing or using bad language

because if I did, I would have been cursing then.

The only good thing about the whole event at the time was that

they replaced my plaster cast with a new fiberglass one. This would

allow me to go swimming and have a bit more activity during the

summer. Yes, they set my leg the way it should have been in the

beginning, but to me, the best thing about the ordeal was my new cast.

I remember after a couple of weeks, I found myself wanting to get

back on my motorcycle. I had to walk on crutches down to the softball

fields and virtually everywhere I went. That was getting old. So, after

some persuasion, I talked my parents into allowing me back on my

motorcycle. That Honda was tough as nails. We didntget the frame

straightened so it looked like it was constantly turning as I was going

down the road. The impact hit square in the middle of the bike so it sort

of turned it into a slight V shape. I didnt care. The thing still ran good

and it got me where I needed to go. There was one problem though. I

couldnt get my toes under the shifter to change gearswith the new cast.


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So, I went to the kitchen and got one of moms steak knives and

chiseled away the fiberglass cast so my toes could get under the shifter.

This worked like a charm! I was mobile again and it felt good to get

back on the motorcycle.

Toward the time when the cast was to come off, I was allowed to

walk without crutches. Soon after, I remember one of friends asked if I

could go swimming at their house. They had an in-ground pool and boy,

was it hot outside! Many of my friends from school were going to be

there and I really wanted to go. Mom said I could go so off I went on

my bike. When I got there, everyone was wondering how I was going to

stay afloat with that cast. I really didnt know either, but there was

nothing on the planet that could keep me out of the water.

I eased into the pool and the bubbles started. After a few seconds,

the cast was waterlogged and it felt so good. About 30 minutes went by

and I was feeling pretty comfortable with getting around with the soaked

cast I thought, I bet I could really spring high off the diving board with

all that water in my cast. I made my way to the board and carefully

walked to the end making sure I wouldnt slip. Then, I pushed down on

the board and it shot me up in the air. When I came down on the board I

knew I was going to go high. I could feel the weight of the drenched

cast doing what I thought it would do. The board bent under the weight

of my body and the water soaked cast; then it sprang me up and off the


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board and up in the air. I didnt do any tricks that first time because it

sort of scared me at first because I had never been catapulted up that

high before. I was a ball player and rather lean for my age, but that cast

helped to get me higher than I had ever been before.

Other times come to mind about that summer. I remember

frequent visits from friends, my Aunt Peggy coming over and rubbing

my toes, and those people who bought pieces of my cast! I didnt get

rich, but I did make 25 cents per piece. The steak knife worked well. I

started cutting off hunks of cast from the top for people that wanted it.

Of course all my friends signed it, drew pictures on it, and made it into a

piece of art. It was fun and I didnt care.


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Leachvilles Gym

As I said before, Leachville was a small town but our gym was the

best in the area. It was a large brick gym with solid polyurethaned pine

bleachers on both sides. The gym had a great concession area, and nice

dressing rooms. On Tuesday and Friday nights that place would be

hoppin! There was not much else to do in Leachville so the basketball

games were huge events.

I got my first chance to play basketball when I was still living in

the country and in the 4th

grade. The bus driver, Mr. Adams, would pick

me up for school every day. One morning, as I got on the bus, he called

out to me. Long! I made my way up to the front of the bus from myseat that I normally sat in and said, Yes, sir?he said, Do you want

to play basketball?I answered, yesbut I have to ask my mom. He

then told me to be at the gym on Saturday morning. From that point on,

I never missed a game.

My dad put up a goal in our backyard and I shot until I wore the

grass out from around the goal. I was a starter my 5th

grade year and 6th

.

When I entered into Jr. High I started every year from the 8th

grade on.

Basketball was my sport and I practiced at it as much as I could.


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My dad coached the 4th

and 5th

grade girls teams my 5th

and 6th

grade school years. Their games were on Saturday mornings so I would

go down to the gym and either help referee, keep books, or something

like that; anything to be in the gym. My dad had a key so I would go

down there and shoot for hours at a time. In the summer, the coach

wasnt allowed to have organized practices but he could open the gym

up for those who wanted to just play around. I would be down there

every time the doors were open.

As I got older, there were adults who would open up the gym from

time to time and play on Sunday afternoons. I was fortunate enough to

get called on to play in these games from time to time. Most were adults

or senior high players. I felt really big and sometimes intimidated

getting out on the floor with those guys. But, I think it actually made me

a better player, and in Leachville, if you played ball, everyone knew

you.

Even when I went to college at ASU, I still found my way back to

the gym on Friday nights to watch the games. But as time went on, my

visits were less frequent. I remember one time in the late summer, I was

coming home to see mom and dad and the gym was open. It was right

before school started and they were stripping the court and putting on

new sealant. I loved that smell. I had smelled it several times in the past


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and it would actually make me upset when they did it because they

wouldnt let us on the floor for several days until it dried. But this time;

it was different.

I walked in and the fans were blowing

on the floor, the two big gym doors

were open, and the wood just shone

like glass. I closed my eyes and took

in a deep breath. It was awesome. I

looked up at the goals and just spent some time walking around looking

at the place and how it had changed. Of course, the gym wasnt as big

as I had remembered and the bleachers sure werent as tall as they were

when we were running them in practice.

At the same time, all that didnt seem to matter. I picked up aball

from the ball cage and bounced it once. I can still hear the echo the ball

makes in an empty gym and the feel of the slightly worn leather of one

that had been used for a season or two. Those were better than the brand

new balls. The new ones were slick and a player couldnt grip them as

well.

All the games and all the nights that gym was filled with people

just came rushing back to my memory. The sound of the clock going


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off, all the squeaks of the shoes, and the sounds of the whistle were all

brought back to my mind.

I remember one instance that returns to me each and every time I

think about my old gym in Leachville. We were playing a local team in

the last tournament of the year. We had played hard and the game was

drawing to the end and the other team was up by one. The gym was full

and the crowd was on their feet. The clock was winding down the last

30 seconds of the last quarter. For one of the teams, it was the last game

of the tournament. The winner would advance and the loser would go

home. Our coach called the play; the clocked clicked down, I rolled

from the wing position to the top of the key; the clock was down to 2

seconds and I shot.

I wish I could say I made the shot and was a local legend from that

point on. I wish I could tell you that they heaved me up on their

shoulders as I threw my arms up in the air. I wish I could have told you

that I heard the crowd chant my name --- But I cant. I missed the shot.

A loud, Awwww!! was heard and cheers from the visitorsside of

the gym roared. Our teammates walked off the floor with heads down

and I dropped to the floor with my head between my knees. How could

I have missed that shot? I had made a gazillion of those from the same

place on that same floor. I had even practiced that very sequence a

million times. I would count down in my mind to 10 seconds then


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practice shooting under that pressure; but yet, on that particular Friday

night, I missed that particular shot.

As the crowd was coming down out of the stands and the people

were standing seemingly all around me; talking and moving from one

place to another; I just sat there. When I finally looked up, I saw my dad

coming down from the stands as fast as he could.

He hit the floor, hurried over to me and put his arm around me and

we just sat there for what seemed like hours but in reality it was only 15

seconds or so. I composed myself and stood up. I cant remember what

he said to me or if he said anything at all. All I knew was my dad was

there standing beside me like he always did. Even today, as I am

writing this down, I am sniffling a bit and tears are welling up in my

eyes; not because I missed the shot, but because of my dad who ran from

the stands and stood with me, his son, during a time of failure.

Its easy to stand by someone in their time of triumph and victory.

But, sometimes, people arent as quick to come to your side in times of

failure. Sure, I got plenty of one tappers on the shoulder as people

would go by, but none of them mattered as much as when my dad was

beside me- especially at that time. It was like he was almost protecting

me --- from what? I dont even know. I really didnt care. He was there,


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and that was all that matteredjust like he always was and still is to this

day.

That moment will forever be ingrained in my memory. It is a

moment where I had a glimpse of what it meant to be a dad. I know

now because I am a dad to two boys. A dad will stand eagerly on the

sideline and see his sons compete or participate in an event. In that time,

I cannot go out and help, I cant do anything but cheer them on and

watch as they succeed or fail. Sometimes, success and failure happen in

the same event. The key is to be there cheering them on and be there

when its over to either share in their victory or share in their defeat.

Ive come to realize that I canhandle defeat better when it happens

to me rather than when it happens to my boys or my wife. Although I

know defeat is a part of playing the game of life in general, and that

character grows more in times of failure than in success, it hurts to see

my boys or my wife struggle or to lose. Yet, without struggle, success

seems empty and worthless.

However, in those times, I do as my dad did; I stand tall beside

them and encourage them to lift up their heads and compete again. You

see, although my dad was there beside me when I failed, he didnt allow

me to stay on the ground. He pulled me up, wiped me off, and expected


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me to play again. He held his head up high and I did the same. I had

nothing to be ashamed of. I played hard and played well.

I went on to average double figures in points and multiple

rebounds and assist the following seasons. My mom and dad were there

in the stands at every ball game and watched every minute. From time

to time, my dad could get a bit excited and explain to the officials how

they could improve their game (thats putting it mildly) but mom was

always there poking him in the side and controlling his commentary.

He still does that even when we go to ASU basketball games,

football games, or any sporting event for that matter and I just sit there,

listen, and remember. I see my dad in my actions as my boys engage in

anything competitive. I catch myself coaching them from the

sidelines, helping during practice, and evaluating everything. One thing

is for sure, my boys know Im there and they know that no matter what,

when its over, I will be standing there beside them with my head held

high ---- just like my dad was for me.


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Grandma and Grandpa Down The Hills

I was fortunate to have known my grandparents well before they

passed. My moms mother and step father lived in Jonesboro which was

only about 30 minutes from Leachville and where I would eventually go

to college. My dads family lived in Harrison, Arkansas. We didnt go

see them as much, but the times we did were filled with all kinds of fun

and memorable experiences.

There are three distinct memory classifications (as I will call them)

of my moms parents: their house and the part of town they lived in,

their relationship to me as grandparents, and the day they were quickly

and unexpectedly taken from us.

They lived in a small house in an older part of town. But that

didnt matter to me. We would all pile up in the car and take off to

Jonesboro to see Grandma and Grandpa down the hills. You see,

Harrison is up in the Ozarks of Arkansas so my brother and I

distinguished the two sets of grandparents by the terrain they lived in. I

know it would have been easier just to have different terms of

endearment for each set, but to a child who named every one of his dogs

Sally this made more sense. (Thatsis a story for another day).


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I remember pulling up in the ten feet or so of chat driveway and

seeing their vehicle in the carport. We would jump out of the car and

run up to the front door and knock. Sometimes they were in the house,

but most times they were outside in the backyard in the swing or in their

garden. All I know is that when we walked in their front door, we were

walking right into the kitchen and the first thing to our right was the

table.

Grandma would always have a white linen cloth covering the table

and another covering any left over homemade biscuits or fried pies she

had made. They were awesome; especially with the jelly she would

make.

Raymond was not my moms real dad but he was the only grandpa

down the hillsmy brother and I knew. He was a big man with really

big hands. He would always call us over and have us sit by him. He

always had a story to tell or some secret to share. We knew what he

was up to though. He would get us over there then take those big hands

of his and wrap them around our leg right above the knee. Oh that

would tickle and once he got a grip; there was no getting loose. It was

great! It would take your breath away --- but great all the same.


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Grandma was a short and spunky woman. I remember one winter

day. They came over to our house about the time of my birthday which

was in January. She wanted to take a picture with me in my basketball

uniform. So I suited up and stood outside in the cold with my grandma

while mom took the picture. After that, we went back in the house and

she gave me my present. It was a diary. She said no one else could read

it but her. I thought it was a bit corny at first, but I still wrote in it from

time to time. As a matter of fact, I still have it today and my boy have

even read those entries.

As time went on, we would see them every so often when we made

it over to Jonesboro or they would come to see us in Leachville. They

were retired and spent a lot of time driving up in the hills. I remember

one afternoon, I was working at the Hays Grocery store as a stocker and

mom and dad came to see me. I think it was a Saturday morning. It was

hot that day and Ken (the assistant manager) came into the store and told

me my parents wanted to see me.

I walked outside and saw mom and dad there. Ken was a nice guy

and walked out there with me. He was standing there smoking his

cigarette ready to make small talk with my parents when they told me

that a drunk driver had swerved over into my grandparents lane as they

topped a hill. They hit head on killing my grandma and grandpa on

impact.


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Kens face was one of shock and he grabbed me by the arm as if to

console me. Mom wasnt taking it too well and all started crying. I

clocked out and went home with my parents.

The rest of the events surrounding that time are a blur. For some

reason, the one thing I have wondered about the most is whether or not

they were actually killed on impact or if they had survived for a time. I

dont know why, but that sticks in my mind. I have played those events

over and over in my mind as if I were in that car with them hundreds of

times, each time the same, except for the ending.

I want to believe they died on impact, but still, for some reason,

other images and scenarios make their way into mind and I have to

shake them away like I am waking from a bad dream. I dont talk about

that time. No one really does in my family. Still yet, those images and

those alternate scenarios still flash back from time to time just like they

are at this moment. All I can do is wonder and hope.

Its funny though. When I remember Grandma and Grandpa, I

remember those Christmas Eve nights when we would receive High

Karate cologne or soap on a rope. We were as excited as we could be. I

remember Grandpa squeezing mine and my brothers knee (and any of

the other grandkids knees he could grab!) I can see his face as he

would tell me story after story.


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I remember him showing me his pocket knife and telling us how

we should always whittle with the blade pointing down and out. I can

still see in my minds eye, looking out into their backyard, my mom and

grandma in that old swing under the mimosa trees just swinging and

talking.

Many times, Grandma would just be talking away, but she would

always be holding moms hand as they talked. Its funny what one

remembers. I can still hear Riceland mill in the distance being just a bit

scared of the deep drainage ditch just beyond their yard.

These were the times with my grandma and grandpa down the hill

that I remember most. These are the images that are ingrained in my

memory. At the same time, these memories come at a cost. I wish I

could remove those images that my mind has concocted of those last

minutes of their lives. Although I was not there, my psyche has painted

these terrible pictures that I have not, to this day, been able to rid myself

of.

I dont know what happened to the drunken guy that topped that

hill on the wrong side of the road. All I know is that he took my

grandma and grandpa away from me and my family all too soon; I

think that guy lived. I really dont know.To be honest with you, I really

dont care what happened to him.


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Grandma and Grandpa Up The Hills

Grandma and Grandpa up the hills were my dads parents . They

lived in Harrison, Arkansas. We didnt get to see them as often as we

would have like because they lived several hours away. The summer

was the best time to visit due to the fact that the winter weather can hit

pretty quickly causing the road to get bad in a hurry. So, when we

could, we went during the summer. Every now and then, I remember

going when it was cold at night, but not too often.

That area of Arkansas is mountainous and really beautiful. Even

though the people there dont warm up to strangers very easily, they are

the salt of the earth. They were hill people to the core. I remember the

excitement when we would finally get off the paved highway and head

up the gravel road to their house which sat nestled on that mountain.

With every curve I would think, This is it! It seemed like we were

driving back in time to a simpler place; a place where the mountain was

just as much a part of your family as your own flesh and blood. I swear

when we came around that last steep curve and I saw their house, it was

like pulling up to the Waltons.


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The house was white clapboard and had a large front porch with

rock supports. The yard was cleared all except a few large trees with a

tire swing attached to one of the large branches. When we pulled into

the yard, the images made my stomach flip! In the yard was an old truck

parked beside a stump of an old tree that had been cut down. From out

of nowhere, their big German Sheppard dog would come up to greet us.

I remember wanting to get out so bad but at the same time, being a bit

scared to get out of car just because, to a 7 or 8 year old, that dog was

big.

As we made our way up the steps and onto the grey painted wood

porch, there were two chairs beside the front screen door; one for

grandma and one for grandpa. Each had Folgers coffee cans sitting

beside them. These, of course, were their tobacco spit cans. Grandma

and Grandpa both chewed tobacco. It wasnt the kind you would find in

the little pouch. This was the twisted kind. It looked sort of like a dead

vine you would pull out of tree and twist up into a 6 or 8 inch rope.

The front door on the porch opened up into the living room. To

the right was a bedroom and through the living room was the dining

room. The kitchen table was big and the room was large. To the right

of the table was a fat black pot bellied wood burning stove. Past the


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stove were two other bedrooms; one of which was where my brother and

I would sleep.

Grandma would either come to meet us or we would find her in the

kitchen past the dining room. She would normally be dressed in a gown

of some kind and house shoes or no shoes at all. She was a small round

woman with black hair and round glasses and she always had a smile on

her face. Grandpa was white haired and didnt get around that well. He

was diabetic. He wore overalls and brown shoes and loved to have us

kids watch as he gave himself his insulin shot every morning. Oh, the

questions he would ask; Have you kids killed any dead snakes lately?

This one was his favorite.

We would go outside and chase the chickens around or just

explore. The barn was a little ways past the backyard. We wouldnt go

back there without someone else with us because a) we were a bit

concerned for snakes, and b) we didnt want to get ticks and chiggers all

over us.

I do remember making our way to the barn down a dirt path that

had been carved out of the tall grass and getting eggs for breakfast; it

was truly amazing; I was a little scared, but excited at the same time.

My brother and I would hunt around for those eggs and then bring them

back up to grandma who cooked them up. Man! Did they taste good!


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I remember afternoons of just sitting on the porch or swinging on

the tire swing. Sometimes my brother and I would walk down the side

yard to the bottom of the hill where there was a stream running off the

mountain. It wasnt a very large stream nor was it deep. The water was

cold and clean though and full of crawdads!

We would tie a string onto a little piece of bacon fat and throw it

across to the other side of the stream. Then, slowly, we would pull the

bacon across the bottom back to us. As the bacon was pulled across the

bottom of the stream, the crawdads would latch onto the bacon. My

brother and I would just haul them up. Sometimes, we would forget the

bacon and just wade out into the water lifting up rocks snatching them as

they would try to get away.

Watercress grew around the edges of the shallow water. My

brother and I would sometimes be sent down to the stream to pick some

to eat. I remember the wind blowing in the huge trees as we would

make our way down the hill. I also remember that the closer we would

get to that stream, the cooler it would get.


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Grandma would fry bacon for breakfast and either save the grease

to heat and use later, or she would take some of that watercress and pour

the hot bacon grease on it and eat it. I remember the crackling sound

that watercress would make as that hot bacon grease would hit it. It

smelled so good, but I just couldnt bring myself to try it. I didnt mind

eating the watercress, but when it had bacon grease as the dressing, it

was just too much for me.

At night, the family would get together and we would sit around

and talk. The TV hardly ever came on. My dads sisters, Jenny and

Ruby, would come over to visit. Ruby was short, loud, strong, and a bit

on the adventurous side. Jenny was quieter, reserved, and looked

more like grandma. She was married to a fellow named Doyle. He was

even quieter than Jenny but he could play a guitar.

I remember one night he came over and brought his old guitar and

amplifier with him. Im not for sure, but for some reason I think he

might have built that amp himself. All I can remember is sitting there

and listening to him play and thinking, Man, I want to play like that.

He and my dad would sit and play for hours and we would just listen and

sing.


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When it came time for bed, my brother and I would make our way

through the dining room, past the big kettle stove and into our bedroom.

The bed was HUGE!! (at least to us) The mattresses were stuffed with

some kind of bird down. They were thick and cushy. Depending on

how cold it was going to get at night, grandma would always have

several homemade quilts ready to put over us.

I tell you the truth, I remember my brother and I standing at the

foot of the bed and falling backwards into the mattress and just burying

up like we have fallen into snow. Then mom would cover us up with the

blankets and there was how we laid. There was no moving once

embedded in the mattress then covered with the weight of several heavy

quilts.

It would start off a little warm in the house due to the fact that the

only heat was coming from the big wood stove in the dining room. It

was centrally located in the house for that particular reason. I was

always told never to touch the stove because it was hot. There was no

way of telling just how hot it was so we just stayed away from it all

together.


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As the night went on and the wood burned down, the house would

gradually get a little cooler. The only reason I know is because my face

was the only thing out from under the covers. The rest of me was nice

and toasty.

When morning came, my brother and I would get up and meet the

rest of the family who was already up and sitting around the table

drinking coffee and waiting on the biscuits and gravy; not to mention the

sausage, bacon and eggs. The smell would fill the house! Before

breakfast, I liked to go outside and feel the cool morning air and walk

around back and watch the chickens scratch around in the dirt. Then

mom would come out on the porch and let us know that grandpa was

about ready to take his shot. We would RUN in the house and pull up a

chair.

Grandpa would roll up the pant leg of his overalls above his knees,

look at us and say, I can give you a shottoo if you want? NO! thats

alright we would respond Are you sure? If you just roll up your

pants Ill give ya one. He would say.After several denials he would

say, Well alright then.. He would take the small brown bottle, stick

the needle in, and draw out the clear liquid. We were in amazed! He

would then put the syringe down, pick up a cotton swab with rubbing

alcohol then rub a tiny place on the inside of his thigh. Taking the

needle, he would bury the needle in his leg pushing the insulin into his


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body. It would never fail. My brother and I would look at each other

and say, cool! By the time itwas over, breakfast was ready and it was

so good.

I cant really say what we did most of the day other than play

outside on the tire swing or sit on the big front porch swing. Life just

sort of slowed down and it was ok just to be with family. We didnt

have to be doing anything or planning to go anywhere. It was like

looking at your day planner and seeing the word, nothing on it. Ive

come to realize that having those nothingtimes regularly in our life is

more productive than filling up our days with no rest between activities.

Its amazing how therapeutic sitting outside on a big front porch is,

being lulled into a day dream by the constant creaking of the swing

chains as they rubbed against the eye hooks in the ceiling can be; or how

rejuvenating a slow walk around the yard stopping to look closely at the

rose bushes blooming can be; or just thinking about nothing and

everything at the same time. As I write about this, I find myself being a

bit startled at the proposition that I have lost that ability. Its one of

those gifts that are always present and available to partake of at any

time, but hardly ever utilized. Its a gift worth exercising.


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I can see this from time to time in my sons. Greyson, for instance,

will be sitting in the car being quite then all of a sudden just giggle. I

ask him what he was thinking about and he will tell me then just start

laughing. At night, before bed, I always make it a point to ask them

what their favorite part of the day was. There have been many times

when we will be talking and they will ask questions that seem to be out

of the blue. When I ask them where that question came from they would

just sa

The Incredible Uniqueness of the Mundane

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