A view from on high

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I slid around the edge of the roof of the house removing the gunk that had collected in the gutters. Being a musician my hands were such a vital part of my life, I always came away with them skinned up from the adventure.

Cleaning out gutters didn’t phase me at that time and I often hopped right up there no matter how high it was moving around easing the path for the rain water.

It had become a nice supplementary business to the lawns I mowed as a kid. I started those when I was around 10 and pretty much continued through college.

Even as I had achieved some notoriety performing for the Grand Ole Opry and major concert events around the country, I still mowed, raked and cleaned gutters for those long established clients I had built up through the years.

I once heard Tennessee Ernie Ford say as his career was developing, one of the criteria he looked at before moving on from something to bigger pastures, was to make sure that there was more cows in that field than the one he was already in.

I don’t think that is what kept me doing for those folks. Many of them were like family, some older and I knew it would be hard for them to find someone to replace me after so many years of my helping them. But eventually I did have to phase out of all those extra jobs and move on in life.

I even recall feeling a bit of guilt in leaving a couple in particular to find someone else to meet those needs.

While I think back fondly on those times sitting up on the roofs working with my thoughts about what I would do with my life flooding through my mind as I looked out around the neighborhood, unlike my younger self, I am no longer anxious to jump up on the roof to think.

However, I still spend time each day, thinking about what God has in store for me in life.

Dreams never seem to fade; there is always something new that is just over the horizon.

A new record, a new book, a new job, a new friendship, a new way to serve and accomplish something for someone else.

These days I still like to look out over the neighborhood as I think. Instead of sticking my hands down in the muck and filling up a bucket with it, now I find a high point on a mountainside, sit there with God’s word and take in the beauty all around me as I read, think and pray.

Perhaps it is something in the genes that I discovered as a kid looking out from those roofs, that there is an almost innate desire within me to be high up – in the mountains looking out and drinking deeply from God’s creation. It seems to renew my soul and provide a perfect backdrop to dream and ask for God’s guidance and His inspiration to know how to illuminate the path that He has in store.

Have you found your rooftop? Do you know where you can be inspired to make a difference?

If you do not have a place, I hope this week you will take some time and find a place to restore your soul as you dream for your future and what you can make happen in your family and community that will make our world a better place.

 

Loving beyond worldly measure

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Some of the most difficult times to watch are when someone we know is trying to be there for a loved one when he or she is coming to the end of his or her journey. As I think back through the years, I remember watching my mother and father as they reached out to support friends or relatives in such times.
If the loved one was elsewhere, they would close up the business, and off they’d go for an undetermined amount of time to just be present.
There to be called upon if needed for and extra pair of hands and legs to: run errands, do day-to-day tasks, cook, just simply sit,
talk, laugh, console, remember, and pray.
I saw my mother and father do this time and time again. I know they drew no financial benefit from what they were doing. Their only
requite was in knowing they were serving Christ with their actions.
Sometimes their presence reached beyond the caregivers to the patient and I know that brought a peace over each of them when they knew they comforted someone as they prepared to cross over.
As a small boy, I watched this routine many times as they said goodbye to former co-workers and neighbors, friends from throughout
their lives, and of course, relatives of every description who impacted their lives.
I vaguely remember one period in my childhood when I felt I was spending more time in hospitals and funeral homes than at school but
death comes at God’s appointment not on our timetables.
I am now at a similar point in time of my life as they were when they were saying goodbye to so many. So, I have become readily cognizant that like my folks, many of those I know are being called, some old, some young, but its seems more with every passing year.
As I reflect on what can I do to support their loved ones, I think back on the model that my parents gave me. I try to simply be present
whenever possible to offer support and help them walk down the path I have already walked. I know that hope, comfort and strength should be offered along the path and I only pray that I can be an instrument to provide some aspect of these to all concerned along the final journey.
Most of us know someone who is facing this point in life, what are you doing to support he or she, and his or her circle of caregivers?
I encourage you to find some way to make a difference; you may be able to leave a message of love that changes a life forever and
passes a legacy of love to your children as they see how you help others in a time in life we all must face.

A Breath Shared

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I struggled to catch a breath as I leaned up on my pillow, trying to find the next clear bit of air and pull it into my lungs.
I often wondered if there would be another breath but there was an endless desire to keep trying.
As a child, like many others I suffered from a multitude of ailments that made my stay on this earth sometimes tenuous.
One of the results of the multitude was asthma that left me with weak lungs that often seize up making exerting myself a dance with living on the edge.
With the caring effort of my mother and dad, rubbing me down in mentholated rub, beating my back to loosen my lungs, keeping a house as clean from irritants as possible, I know my survival would have been unlikely.
There came a morning when I was about five that I did not awake. I relay the account as shared with me, since I was unable to experience it from a conscious prospective.
After calling my name several times to raise me from my slumber with no avail, my late mother came in to find me laying in my bed, the sight scared her, her boy there, still, staring up at the ceiling, lifeless. In her words, “Your eyes were set back in your head and you were not breathing.”
She grabbed me up wrapped in the quilt that I was sleeping in, threw me over her shoulder, picked up the kitchen phone calling the doctor’s office, saying, “I’m bringing him in.” She jumped into our blue 1964 Chevy Malibu and as she said, didn’t stop for a single light as she drove the five miles to his office.
She rushed through the waiting room and the receptionist jumped up, opened the door realizing I was in distress and the immediately took me into an exam room placing me on the table.
The doctor questioned why she didn’t take me to the emergency room. Her reply “He’s here now, do something.”
So he did, with only what he had on hand he started trying to revive me and sent the nurse to get a shot of some kind.
He administered the shot and then turned to mom and said, “All we can do now is pray.”
That’s what they did, pray over my lifeless body with no signs of hope.
After a few moments of prayer, I began to breath and the life that was gone was restored. What accomplished this? The doctor’s sharing his skill with limited means; or the prayers of them standing above my lifeless body calling out to God to not allow the senseless death of a toddler.
Whatever it was, their faith, medicine, it allowed me to breath again, and grow, struggle, and cling to life again and again, as I battled more childhood adversities carrying me to adulthood. He allowed me to learn, and work, and give, and pray for others. He has allowed me to serve.
For me that day was God’s miracle of life that He gave me initially and He chose to give it back to me because that five-year-old had something more to do for Him.
Once again when I was in my twenties, a water-borne illness had me near death with no medical means of improving my situation. It was mother’s unceasing prayers by my hospital bedside that drew me back to health.
There are two times when I know God intervened in the course of the frailness of the human body and allowed me to continue.
Each day, I know that I fail in using the opportunities He affords, and sometimes I find myself bogged down in my own hopes and desires. But then I remind myself, my presence here is His gift to me, that He has given more times than I can count or even know about.
I try to remember that is my work here to give back and so I pray I always remember and act accordingly. Prayer is a gift – use it, give it, share it.

Living in the right path

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Knowing one’s best direction in life can be an ever-changing debate within your own head.
As someone who has spent their life in entertainment, I often look at my situation to weigh my perception of what I do with the reality of the logistics of life.
I find myself fretting over some aspect of where my road has taken me and wonder whether I veered from the appointed path set out for me.
Was I meant to do something different in life? Did I choose what God intended?
Those are questions that I am sure many people debate in his or her head especially as the children are screaming at each other in the back seat of the car; the bills on the table appear to be much higher that any hope of payment; or the honey do list becomes a small paperback.
I learned many years ago from actor Carroll O’Connor in a deep conversation about the human condition and differences in people that in life we often spend our time listening to the problems of others as he or she seeks empathy. He told me in that shared experience there is a sense of uplifting that the sharer can gain if received and responded to properly while the listener can overt a draining of spirit while sharing comfort.
“Everyone has the same problems,” he told me. “Different folks just have a different number of zeros attached to them.”
So in some way that list of things people endure mentioned above along with a long list of others is not unique to us. We all have moments of doubt when we wonder if we are on the right path. Shouldn’t be easier if we were? Not necessarily.
We can be within the path set forth by God before we were a twinkle in our father’s eye in His purpose for us to fulfill His mission, and life could be very difficult.
If we have accepted Christ into our life then we are in His light. We may choose to put on a blindfold at times as we make a choice outside our appropriate path but He is always with us shining His light waiting for us to reflect what He is sharing.
When I begin to sink into the questions of my choices, my circumstances, my feelings, I then remember that ultimately, I am striving in His will and if He wishes me to be in a different situation, He will open the doors, and reveal the path.
I just need to remain ready, prepared and always be working to improve the opportunities within my life, career, and my relationships with family and friends.
Carroll’s “Archie” character might have told me to “Stifle” as I began whining about my life and after a few lines proceeded with “You Meathead, You….”
Sometimes we need to say that to ourselves, “You Meathead, You!” Life is a blessing, even in the worst situation you can experience; there are others who have greater need in the world. So as “Archie” could have shared: “Be like that real American John Wayne, and pick yourselves up by your boot straps there, and just get on with it. Do what is right and God will’s look after you.”

Reach out to those who touched your life

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I stood on my tiptoes trying to see the inside of the skillet.
Inside it, bubbling in the grease side by side were breaded slices of zucchini squash. I had never tasted zucchini but this summer on our family trip north we stopped in Ohio and were visiting with my aunt Verna Hale.
“My I turn them,” I asked.
“Yes, let me show you how,” she said using the spatula and soon pointing out when it was time.
She had moved north from the valley below the Gravelly Spur Mountain in Tennessee to Ohio to seek work during WWII just like her sisters. Eventually in the 1950s several of the younger brothers moved north as well.
By the time I was standing by her stove, her children were essentially raised and started or close to starting on their own lives, so in many respects as a kid, I had the run of their ranch style house which set up high on a hill.
Their garden produced the squash she was cooking for dinner and I had gotten to help pick it with my uncle and watch closely as Aunt Verna cut and breaded it for frying. We brought them in from the garden and washed them in a sink that was in the garage, something I had never seen up until that point in my life.
My mom was also in the kitchen helping prepare some corn on the cob, and between the two, they were patting out hamburgers.
In my youth, her spotless home wherever it was, became a second one to me, and she became my closest aunt as we visited back and forth and when eventually she moved to  Tennessee and Florida in retirement.
Through the years she made it to a few of my concerts and was the only relative other than my mother and cousin Sue to visit me in Covington, Ga. meeting some of my co-stars from “In the Heat of the Night.”
Sadly, as my mother’s health declined, my mom chose to cut herself off from her family members and focus on her own well-being. As her caregiver, that choice changed my life, cutting me off from my extended family including Aunt Verna. We were able to reconnect after mother passed, seeing each other a few times and corresponding by mail, which was the conventional way we had through the years.
She raised two boys – Ron and Benny. Benny and his wife Carolyn lived with us for a while in Atlanta when they were starting their life together in a new place. They eventually moved south of Atlanta, Ga. and raised a family giving aunt Verna 23 grandchildren of different generations to be proud of.
I learned of her passing recently at the age of 94 and it flooded my mind with the smiles; the pats on the back; the comforter when a shoulder to cry on was needed; the countless meals she prepared and shared; the little gifts she gave; and always the encouragement that was present.
Though we have not been as close in recent years, my childhood, my teens and young adulthood was enhanced by her, I pray she knew that was appreciated. If you have someone in your family that touched your life, and is still within your reach, take a minute, call, write, e-mail or text and let them know it!

What is an antique fiddle?

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Have you ever glanced through a classified ad section in the newspaper and saw an ad for an antique violin, mandolin or some other type of instrument?

When I see an ad of this nature I wonder how the owner values the instrument. Is it like a mahogany federal chair from the 1700s or a walnut pie safe from the 1820s?

These are both fine examples of antiques.

Does the title antique before an item make an instrument better or more valuable?

When a 200-year-old chair is bought it can be used to sit upon but can a 200-year-old fiddle be played?

I answered one of those antique violin ads once and found a beautiful instrument that had little or no practical value as an instrument because of a lack of a good sound.

Although I have seldom passed up a fiddle at a good price, and the lady assured me that it was a fine antique and worth every penny she wanted, in this case I did.

I did not take the time to suggest to her what I am going to share with you:

An antique is a car, piece of furniture, fine piece of glassware or china, not an instrument. To make an antique valuable several variables need to be in place, a group of people who want it, in most cases good quality workmanship and a general rule of thumb a three-digit age, with the exception of cars.

An instrument should improve with age if made well, but if it is junk now it will be junk 200 years from now.

An antique should retain its function of original intent. A chair should be sat upon, car driven and instrument played.

If an instrument belonged to Grandpa then it has a value, a sentimental value, but it does not make it valuable to outsiders, that is unless your grandfather was Fritz Kreisler, Stephane Grappelli, then there is an added value of celebrity and musical history.

Every musician would like to find that early Gibson Mastertone banjo under a bed or that original Stradivarius violin tucked behind the rafters of the basement, but not everyone will. Most will not even come close.

That does not mean you should stop looking. Just beware of those who think of old instruments as antiques to be looked at and not played. Some of the finest instruments played by professionals on symphony stages around this world would probably be found to be 2-300 years old, are they valuable because they are old, no, they are valuable because of the time the maker took to create them and give them an enduring sound that is pleasing to hear.

The best way to choose an instrument no matter the age is whether its sound is pleasing to you.

Who is going to have to listen to it more? If you can’t stand it no matter how old it is it’s worthless to you.

Wish we still had gas stations with garages

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As I eased along a route I often took, I knew it was a straight shot
to my destination. I expected to be there well ahead of time, of
which I try to make a habit. As a sweet aroma permeated the car, I
thought to myself: “Why am I smelling a new tire inside my car?”

I looked around at the other cars while stopped at a traffic light
and realized that it could not be a new tire smell. Then it dawned on
me that it was the smell of anti-freeze boiling. As I glanced over
the hood at the puffs of white smoke easing from under my tire-well,
I knew it was time to give my horse a rest. I looked for the nearest
garage to pull off.

I’m sure some of you remember garages; in years past they were the
buildings sitting behind the gas pump. You pulled in and they could
generally fix any problem related to your automobile.

What ever happened to the gas station where they worked on cars? Now,
if you pull into the gas station, you are lucky if you can get a
bucket full of water to throw on yourself to cool your frustration
because nobody there knows anything about cars.

But they can appease you by selling you an ice cream cone, a slurpee
or even 50 cents worth of air for your tires while you wait for the
tow truck to come and take you away.

When did air become something you pay for? I wish I had thought of
it.

You might even be able to get a book on CD to get your mind off
things, that is if you could only get the car radio to play.

It seems today all you can find are those little oil change places.
You know the ones where they do one or two things extremely well, but
unfortunately cannot go much beyond that scope.

Have you noticed lately there are more and more such auto businesses.
There is a place to get your oil changed, a place to buy a muffler, a
place to get tires and a place to fix your brakes. The car repair
business is almost like doctors — there is a specialist in almost
anything and everything.

So anyway, I tooled off and found my place in line at one of those
oil change places and waited for a chance to ask for assistance.
Usually, I expect to find someone who can provide little assistance.
Instead, I found someone at an oil change place who took the time to
look at the problem and say: “There’s nothing we can do to fix the
problem, but at least let’s put a Band-Aid on it by adding some more
anti-freeze so we can get you to someone who might help.”

He suggested going to the nearby auto parts store to see if they had
any suggestions to fix it with just a little expense.

There, the customer service person was courteous and helpful. He
looked at the problem and provided me with a part that he felt would
fix the problem. He even attached it. I thought I was home free, and
I am sure he did as well.

Unfortunately, as I returned to my journey to try to reach my
appointment on time, I happened to look in my rearview mirror. It was
then that a sinking feeling fell over me as I realized that line of
liquid behind me on the highway was not in front of me. I was rapidly
losing anti-freeze, and the problem was not solved. So, I immediately
began looking for my next course of action. Turning down another
street knowing that very little was ahead on my route, I found a
muffler shop which specializes in brakes and mufflers.

I went in, told them the problem and asked if they had time to help.
The mechanic said they would be happy to check out the problem if I
did not mind waiting. I asked if there would be any charge and he
said “no.”

At this point, I was too late to make my appointment, so I called to
reschedule. I waited while they gave it the once over. Upon their
return they gave me the bad news that it was not just a hose or
something simple, and it would require half a day to fix it.

Since they did not have time at that late hour in the day, I had to
get on my way, and they insisted no charge and assured me that if I
wanted them to do the needed work, they would work it in early the
next week.

While I chose not to return due to the distance of this particular
garage from my home, I feel all of these folks went out of their way
to help me that day. I can only figure they must do similarly for all
their customers. They should all be commended.

Even though you can no longer go down to the filling station and get
a bottle of pop while Goober or Wally works on your car and Gomer
checks the oil, air and fills up your gas, there are still folks out
there that take the time to make you feel like you almost could.

I hope you also find people like these along your way.

What’s happening to men and women?

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Though I don’t consider myself a product of a different age, I look around and see how men and women, boys and girls, publicly act, dress, behave, treat each other, speak, and I ponder what happened.
My parents raised me with certain expectations of behavior especially in the presence of the opposite sex or anyone who is your senior. Respect was key. Now that does not mean you allow yourself to be maligned or used as a doormat, but you show respect in how you respond.
When you went to work, unless you were a tradesman or women, you dressed, as a man, suit and tie, unless the employer called for something more specific. For church, you wear your best as a form of respect in worship, whatever that was.
There were certain things you were expected to do, as a child or youth, you yielded to the discipline of the supervising adults, and you were on your very best behavior when in public or around strangers, or older family members or neighbors, always showing respect.
As a child, some of what I was taught that an adult male should do is:
not use a person’s first name unless given permission; not cuss; acknowledge people as you meet them at work or on the street allowing ladies to acknowledge you first, this can be done with a nod of the head since most folks do not wear hats for tipping anymore; remove your hat when entering a building and especially in the atmosphere of casual headwear, and never wear a hat at a table.
When it comes with interacting with ladies, a man should:
rise when a lady enters the room or stands in public or private social gatherings; open doors; offer an arm to a lady you know when entering or leaving a building or room or if the ground appears uneven; walk on the sidewalk with a lady away from traffic; give ladies your seat when none is available; assist with her chair at the table or help putting on a coat; and avoid impolite subjects.
Of course, the changes in the workplace and the social environment over the past few decades have changed what is being taught our youth and done by adults, and to conform in some situations, I have had to forego some of these teachings, so not to make other men uncomfortable in their lack of etiquette.
Still, I am blessed when in environs and among others in which these expected behaviors once again are shown and I readily fall back into these naturally.
With the outrage in the current status of the male-female relationships in the workplace and elsewhere, perhaps we need to return to the tried and true expectations of public interaction from several decades ago, so that opportunities for such behavior are eliminated.
Of course, many will scream that that is not the solution, that men and women should be treated the same way in all environments. Well, as the son of an early advocate of the Equal Rights Amendment, I can say from her teachings there is a balance that can be found. My mother taught me all that I shared while standing up for women’s rights.  From her prospective as a business owner starting in the 1950s, respect was the key, having equal opportunities and equal pay did not mean women had to give up being a lady in whatever environment they chose to place themselves, in the board room, elected office or in the home.

A voice that soared above the pines – Curly Seckler

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Randall Franks and Curly Seckler in 1980s.

Curly Seckler

My New Year’s Eve show got me home about 3:30 a.m., and I quickly tried to get to sleep with a plan to rise early and head to Nashville. I awoke on time and aimed my burgundy Chevy Lumina towards the goal a little over two hours away. The trip had been made hundreds of times in my life, especially as my country music career was in full swing there.
I thought back to early trips which found me knocking on the door of a home off Dickerson Road when legendary bluegrass musician and singer Curly Seckler came to the door. I chose to emulate him as a child. He had done this many times and often told others especially as my star in music and TV rose of my initial youthful visit.
His door was always open to me, and he was always generous with his time, whether in person, on the phone or on the road. This trip was however not to knock on his door but to pay my respects to his family and join with his other friends and admirers as we said goodbye to the 98-year-old.
Seckler’s long career combined his talents with the majority of the genre’s first-generation legends from Charlie Monroe to “Doc” Tommy Scott, Jim and Jesse McReynolds to the Stanley Brothers.
He was most recognized by historians and fans though by his role as the tenor singer and mandolinist to Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs as part of the Foggy Mountain Boys. One of the key artists which infused bluegrass into the fabric of American culture through television, recordings and radio. It was those recordings that also drew me as a young boy, and his tenor that I tried to match as I sang.
As I walked towards the door of the Spring Hill Funeral Home the bitter cold chilled my cheeks. I followed in some of the musicians that were to be singing who made their way to the coffin storage room to practice. I said hello to one of their wives who was waiting and soon found his biographer Penny Parsons, who wrote “Foggy Mountain Troubadour” opening up the viewing room. I was the first to arrive, so after a brief visit with Penny, I was able to spend some time with my long-time friend, just he and I as all the memories flooded back. I reminisced aloud looking upon the voice “who soared above the pines.” I talked about the visits to his home, the first time I looked up at him and his Nashville Grass on stage after the death of Lester Flatt, and was mesmerized by his poise and style on stage, to later in my life when my country music fan club was hosting a Country Music Fan Fair party and in he and his future wife Eloise Warren walked in to support me as just another two of my fans. Soon I found tears rolling down my cheeks and I sucked up the emotions drying my tears. I stepped back in the hall as family members began arriving slowly, the other notable musicians, industry elites, and Foggy Mountain Boy offspring filed in and visited with the family.
As I stood talking to his son Ray at the foot of his coffin, I looked to my left and in came the musicians who had be practicing, the Grammy winning Earls of Leicester (Jerry Douglas, Shawn Camp, Charlie Cushman, Jeff White, and Johnny Warren), who continued the Flatt & Scruggs tradition. Each, all old friends, stopped and shook hands and moved closer to the coffin. In a few moments, I looked up to my left and there stood Vince Gill paying his respects to one of his heroes. We shared some Curly memories, until Sharon Skaggs came in and hugged my neck and Ricky reached over and shook my hand as he got in the viewing line.
Shortly, we all settled into the Chapel as the “Foggy Mountain Special” played and WSM Announcer Eddie Stubbs led the service sharing the pulpit with Brother Terry Clapp and Gerald McCormick.
Moving performances were shared by Ricky Skaggs and the Whites of “Gone Home,” Connie Smith with “Gathering Flowers for the Master’s Bouquet,” and the Earls of Leicester on “Who Will Sing for Me” and we watched and heard memorable TV performances by Curly with Flatt & Scruggs  “I Want to Be Loved” and “Precious Memories” and his mandolin player with the Nashville Grass – Marty Stuart and the Fabulous Superlatives with “Lord, I’m Coming Home.”
We laughed, we cried, we applauded and we paid tribute to someone we all loved as both a good man who gave his hope, his encouragement and his faith freely to all of us; and to the last link to the golden era of the Flatt and Scruggs musical legacy that will stand the test of time and outlast all of us. As we gathered in the single digit wind chill around his graveside, the Earls of Leicester delivered a song Curly loved singing – “Reunion in Heaven.” Though we were freezing, we all seemed to linger there after being dismissed holding on to the significance of the moment, shaking hands, slowly passing by his wooden coffin awaiting the day of that reunion.  Learn more at www.curlyseckler.net.

 

 

 

Refilling the well with love

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Over the past few weeks, I have said goodbye to many friends and family, and I share this story in honor of each of them and those who gave tirelessly to care for each of them as they prepared for their final steps. Perhaps it will give us all something to carry throughout the coming year – to always remember that we are here to love one another.

As Pearl looked into the eyes of her father, Grandpa Bill looked back with a stare that was almost empty.

There was nothing more scary, more disheartening than looking into those deep blue eyes that had given so much throughout life, such caring, such love and on occasion a stern glance that made you know you were on very thin ice.

But now as he looked upon you there were moments that he did not know who you were.

Pearl longed for a chance once again to hear his gentle voice speak her name for no other reason except to be sure that he knew her.

Fear overcame her worrying that such a moment might not come again or perhaps his thoughts might land in a place of anger and frustration making him want to strike out at her and those who love him so much.

The family had seen the cycle again and again as the older generation slowly yielded its control to the next, albeit sometimes kicking and screaming along the way.

But that is only appropriate not to go quietly into that good night.

In the valley below the Gravelly Spur Mountain there is no such thing as a nursing home or assisted living. You found your assistance at home among your family and friends.

No matter your age or disability there was always some series of chores you could perform to keep a daily routine until you body rebelled and no longer allowed you to do them.

Then if your hands remained active, a chore that required only slight movement might be shared, peeling potatoes, breaking green beans, sewing on buttons.

But Grandpa Bill had reached the point that those days were behind him and he was giving comfort only in the brief moments of clarity as they came and went within him.

Pearl wondered what she might do to make the situation better, alas there was little she could do except be there leaning back in the woven seat oak chair holding his hand as it lay upon the blue and white cotton patchwork quilt. She tried to make each day as close to what he wanted as possible.

There was no doubt of the love shared between the father and daughter and yet that did not ease the fearful moments when the ravages of time seemed to wipe it clean like the swipe of an eraser across a school blackboard removing the chalk so no one could see it.

But she found her solace waiting for that next moment when the writing once again appeared on Grandpa Bill’s class slate perhaps not in all its detail but enough to hold on to. Enough to sustain until there was no more.

It makes one wonder where love goes when the board is wiped clean.

Perhaps that is the purpose of family caring for family. The well of love pours out throughout the lives of those contributing filling the hearts of those around them. When the well begins to dry up does that mean that the love is gone? Of course not, the love still remains within all those who have shared in it throughout that person’s life.

As the level of one’s well begins to diminish it is simply the job of all of those who have drank from that well to now bring some of that love back to that person.

Just because they may not be able to drink it in fully does not make the gift any less valued.

From the book “A Mountain Pearl: Appalachian Reminiscing and Recipes“