The Little Things Mean a Lot

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When I was growing up, I had many role models. My parents were great role models imparting many lessons. Some were easily learned while others took a bit of strict discipline to get them through my thick head.
My grandfather Jesse and both my grandmothers were role models. My older brothers in a way, even though they were ahead of me a few years on the learning curve, taught me a lot. Some of the key lessons was missing out on the discipline they received by proper coaching away from some of the mistakes they made.
Several of my parent’s friends and extended family also at times found their way into role model list as I was growing up imparting bits and pieces of wisdom on various topics as life’s opportunities afforded. When we remodeled our bathroom, I learned a lot from my Uncle Clarence about building and doing tile work. My Uncle Waymond taught me a lot about trapping and hunting.
Standing alongside my father as he worked on various projects, I saw him pull his tools from his black tool bag. He would lay out the tools he might need, in a neat order, he then began his diagnostic approach to figuring out what was wrong with whatever device he was fixing.
I stood there watching what he was doing as he strategically isolated the potential issues until he deduced the solution and used his tools to make it work again. He then cleaned up his tools and packed them away into his leather bag like a doctor with his instruments.
He told me that it might seem like a little thing to clean off your tools and properly pack them away until next time they are needed. But if you do it, he said. You will have them ready when needed again.
It’s a little thing, he said, but if you don’t take care of the little things, you won’t take care of the big things.
As time has went by, I have learned that lesson well. I have seen people who do not care for the little things lose sight of the importance of caring for the big things.
Perhaps that is why I have always looked towards the details in every project.
If you take care of those, all the others parts will fall into place.
Learning the lessons passed on from others can make each of the tasks we take on in life find greater success.
The little things really do matter!

Uncle Dud Doolittle and the rickety ladder

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I am sitting on experience overload as we all are dealing with the nationwide pandemic shutdown and my local region is reeling due to tornadoes and flooding. So, I am turning us to a bit of levity to raise the spirits:

My great Uncle Dud Doolittle was an entrepreneur extraordinaire who operated the little general store at Flintville Crossroads.

Now Uncle Dud was as swift as could be. He stood about five-foot-five and was wiry as a well-strung bed frame.

His circular Ben Franklin spectacles offset his gray hair, and he was seldom seen outside his wool, dark green-striped suit and favorite gray beaver hat.

When working in the store, he also wore a black visor on his head that looked odd because it made his bald spot shine as he worked below the store’s light bulb.

With the variety of folks who made his store a regular place to be, he was always finding himself in unique and unusual situations.

Folks were always eager to give a hand, especially Cousin Clara who made a drop by the store a daily ritual.

It was a quiet Friday afternoon in July of 1948. Uncle Dud stood on a rickety wooden ladder putting a shipment of canned peaches in his favorite pyramid display. As he drew his task to close Cousin Clara came in saying, “Sure is hot out there.”

She noticed a can lying below the ladder so she walked over and stepped under the ladder to pick it up. As she raised up, she knocked over the ladder sending Uncle Dud to the floor.

“Doggoned it,” Dud said. “I told you before to stay away from that ladder. Don’t you know it is bad luck to walk under a ladder?”

“I didn’t know you were superstitious,” Clara said.

“About the only time I am superstitious is when somebody like you walks under a ladder and deliberately sends me to the ground,” he said.

“Do you believe it is seven years bad luck to break a mirror?” Clara asked.

“No sireee! My Uncle Corn Walter broke a mirror, and he did not have a bit of bad luck,” Dud said.

“Why didn’t he?” Clara asked.

“He got bit by a rattlesnake and died two days later,” he said.

Throughout the conversation, Dud remained as he had landed on the floor — standing on his head.

“Why are you still like that?” she asked.

“When I stand on my head the blood rushes to my head, but when I stand on my feet the blood don’t seem to rush to my feet,” Dud said. “I didn’t know why, so I wanted to just stay here and think about it a minute or two.”

“Why, that’s easy to figure out in your case Uncle Dud,” Clara said. “Blood can’t go in to your feets because your feets are full, but it can go into your head cause your head’s empty.”

(The characters of Uncle Dud Doolittle and Cousin Clara are the property of Peach Picked Publishing in association with Katona Publishing and are used by permission.)

A refuge under the covers

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When I was a little boy, my brother and I shared a room with two maple single beds, a maple night stand, and a maple dresser with six drawers – three on each side with a large mirror spanning its width. The beds had pineapple finials on their posts. My older brother left me behind in the room early in my life after he graduated high school headed off to the Navy. There was 15 years between us. The room was lonely once he was gone. He often had friends over that allowed me to be the annoying little brother! I reveled in all the mischief I was able to cause as a toddler.

That room became like a cavern to me. In the dark, there were definitely monsters under both beds, in the closet and walking down the hallway leading to the room. I could hear every creak and pop. Any little thing would have the handmade quilt pulled so high over my head, it was doubtful I would ever dig myself back out again.

When the fears of nightmares were too hard to bear, my parent’s bed was a refuge, and off I would run up the hall, open the door, and jump in between them in their cedar bed. After they calmed me, I would soon settle in warm and snug between them.

As I grew, my bed became also a sick bed, as my tenuous health caused me to take extended stays there. The maple night stand became a regular place for bottles of medicine, damp wash rags would remove the vanish over time as they would hang there between my fevers.

In my childhood, the room had none of those things children have today. There was only one TV in the house in the living room. Only what could fill my imagination with the toys from my closet were what I had to keep me occupied in the healthy times. I also had a candy red tricycle which allowed me some freedom in the back yard and, of course, like many I had my own cowboy outfit, with a cap pistol, so I could chase after the bad guys.

That room was my world as a kid. I knew every flaw, every loose board, and where I could hide from company if they came. Despite being alone, I filled it with lots of imagination.

As the years passed, I remained there until I was in my teens and the den was converted into a more adult bedroom for me and the childhood bedroom became a guest room.

Years later, we decided to sell the suite and it moved along to a family that had a set of twin girls who would then call it their own. I hoped they found as many happy hours there as I did and experienced a few more joint memories as siblings. The bedroom suite was second hand to my brother and I, so I imagine it has moved on a time or two more since then.

While furniture does not carry memories with it, the pieces certainly can leave a memory legacy within each of us. Today, I still sleep in that cedar bed I once jumped in as a toddler. A few feet away are the dresser drawers which served as my bed as an infant. I imagine, if it is the Lord’s will these items will be with me the rest of my journey and then will pass along in the family.

Joe Barger

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Award-winning author Randall Franks joins long-time Ringgold Georgia Mayor Joe Barger in writing his autobiography

Testing the Metal of Life (The Joe Barger Story) by Joe Barger with Randall Franks is released in October 2023.

Randall Franks and Joe Barger

“Former Mayor Joe Barger called me several months ago and asked me to come over to his home,” Franks said. “He asked me to help him write his autobiography. This began months of Joe and his wife Barbara spending hours with me completing interviews, going over notes and photographs spanning his 93 years. From his early years in North Carolina to American military service in the Philippines; then from Ringgold to China and around the world, as he also led a small Appalachian town through 48 years of amazing growth.

“Writing this book with Joe is an amazing experience. It is a fascinating American story that I think anyone might enjoy and I  am so honored that Joe and Barbara place such trust in me.”

See Joe Barger and I share a program about the book at the Catoosa County Historical Society in February 2024:

Joe Barger died on April 10, 2024, we mourn his passing and ask for prayers for his family in the coming weeks.

Copies may be ordered either via mail (see address below) or by PayPal button below. In addition to cost and shipping, the button includes additional cost to cover PayPal fees. The book is also available via Amazon.com



Autograph Request by Co-Author Randall Franks? Please Provide Name Desired To


Order by mail by sending $25 check or

money order to

Barbara Barger

Peach Picked Publishing,

P.O. Box 42, Tunnel Hill, Ga. 30755

 

Can I be recreated in a computer?

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As Labor Day passes by this is the first one that I actually recall being on strike on the day we acknowledge the contributions of American workers.

I am part of the film and television industry and earlier this year, the screenwriters went on strike, and shortly thereafter the actors followed suit.

While I am sure there are many intricate elements to the negotiations with the producers, ultimately, I think on all fronts the impact of artificial intelligence is what will hold the members of SAG-AFTRA and other industry unions in negotiations for the indefinite future.

As I understand, with current technology, basically, writers, and we actors may become obsolete and AI can take the basics of writing stories, our vocal patterns and our facial and body movements and can basically recreate all of the talents in a box.

This may be a simplistic view, but the future of what that looks like and its impact on the worker are far reaching.

While I am sure many see Hollywood’s absence from creating new television shows and films as a relief, there are good people in the industry who create positive and uplifting content who now not creating also.

I imagine, AI and robotics will continue to touch every imaginable job across our country in the coming months and years.

While the genie in many respects is already out of the bottle, we the workers of America, must be mindful to return and create opportunities for our selves and others in our home communities.

We may have to start thinking of the models used by our ancestors when every town required at least one person to have a particular skill to meet the needs of the residents and make the products we need.

I have a feeling, we will not be able to depend upon these AI and robots to look after our interests and create what is best for us.

Those who have let the critters into your homes through various devices, you may want to rethink that.

While it may seem convenient, is it in your best interest?

That answer is still far into the future when we find out who exactly is listening and collecting the data and for what ultimate purpose.

Being far removed from the mainstream of production, I am picketing, but only in my mind. Like many of my relatives have through the years as their unions have went on strike, we must stick together to make sure we do not lose the world we depend upon and love.

Spending until it goes out of style

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It is only through paying attention that we can save our hometowns.

In big cities, its often difficult to understand who does what, and
how they are spending our money.

In a small town though, it’s your city council that is responsible
for deciding what is spent annually within its budget, or bi-weekly
if the expenditure is unanticipated or requires an additional
approval through the bid processes required in your city.

It is your money they are spending and often we don’t even think
about the fact that by our vote we are putting people, we wouldn’t
even allow to balance our checkbooks in charge of millions of dollars
in cash and multi-millions in infrastructure that belong to us.

On average, most councils meet twice monthly. Since the advent of
social media, many share their meetings on some platform so you
don’t even have to leave your home to know what they are doing.

Did you ever take the time to see how they are spending your money?

Is there some pet project that one or several of your elected
officials decided is more important than providing the basic services
that cities are suppose to provide.

In a time when most cannot afford to put food on the table and gas in
the tank, communities are often spending rather than cutting back.

The same can be said in a much larger scale about counties.

We all get wrapped up in our own lives trying to care for family,
keep a business going, or simply working. But if our local
governments are taking money from us and wasting it, its our own
fault for not holding our council people accountable.

I know I have recently realized funds being wasted in my hometown and
it made so mad I couldn’t hold in my frustration.

What can you do. Well in most cities this is an election year. Mayors
and council people will be hitting doors, doing gatherings to get you
to vote for them. Ask them questions, but most of all be equipped
with facts about the waste and let them know you will not support
them if they are not willing to change direction in spending
policies.

Every thing is going up, but at the same time, cities can cut back
just like we are having to do.

That means cutting back on services and eliminating the frills in
your community. If its good enough for our household, the same should
be true for our town.

Now, I can just hear every excuse that they might give as why they
cannot cut back.

I can also hear all the reasons in my head why I can’t vote for
them.

Don’t forget herstory

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Sometimes you just got to be hit on the head with a sledge hammer, a
five iron or an iron skillet to realize something that has been
staring you in the face all your life.

I recently went to a One Book One Community event in my hometown
where we welcomed a Georgia author who has seen great success with
her books. Kimberly Brock’s latest and the focus of the event is
“The Lost Book of Eleanor Dare.” The story is a fictionalized
account relating to the descendants of the Lost Colony of Roanoke.

In her lecture, I heard her note how she had wondered what were the
stories of the women. Then it hit me, that we generally know the
“his”tory but the “her”story often dies off within a
generation or two of the lady who lived it.

Coming from a family a very strong women, their stories permeated my
childhood. My grandmother, my mother and even the mothers back for a
few greats left pieces of themselves in our family lore.

I recently met someone at a community gathering, they asked who was
my grandmother. When I said, they replied, “I remember her very
well. When I was a boy, she impressed me because she could drive
cattle like any man in the valley.” I had never thought of her
driving cattle. I should have but it just didn’t dawn on me. They
had to get from mountain grazing to valley grazing some how.

That was part of her story, she never shared with me.

I began thinking about the generations of women whose stories were
lost to me except in the names and dates of she and her children.

Now, I am blessed to have several lines which include some pretty
illustrious folks up there on that tree. If the grandmother, aunt or
cousin managed to make a mark on their world then elements of her
story survive in the written history of their country. Many of those
ladies may have had their stories become more fable than history. The
famed Lady Godiva who rode on horseback supposedly in her where with
all, was one of my grandmothers. I had a grandmother Isabella of
France who was credited for overthrowing a king – Edward II. Of
course, there were probably a few of those truth be known, especially
when the king was their not-so-loving husband.

My grandmother Margaret Tudor, who ran Scotland after the death of
her husband King James IV died and struggled against some strong
noble chieftains.

These are a handful who I am blessed to be able to learn a bit about
their lives because fate placed them in a position which made their
lives important because of the man that was their father, their
husband or their son. The oldest image I have of a woman in the tree
dates to Rome, 120 BC, when my grandmother Aurelia managed to birth a
boy who would be Julius Caesar. So, historians managed to write a few
detailed paragraphs about her.

Jumping forward, a handful of grandmothers, aunts and female cousins
managed to get on notable lists among our countries first settlers
but little is known about their specific lives other than their
arrivals in Plymouth on the Mayflower, or Jamestown on another ship.

There is a big dark hole in the herstory of the lives they lived.
Sadly, I fear even though we put much of our story out for the world
to see through social media. I fear that one day that resource will
not be as reliable as the written word once was, if anything was
written.

Don’t let someone have to hit you over the head with something
heavy, take the time to write her story while she is here to tell it.
Or record those she knows about the generation before. Write your own
story too. In my case, a few of those stories in my case can be found
in the book “A Mountain Pearl” which highlights some stories
about my mother and grandmother in Appalachia.

What we do may seem mundane, but to future generations, they might be
amazed, just like I was to think of my dear grandmother driving
cattle like a drover.

Use the day

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As I awake, I turn off the alarm, I turn and plant my two feet firmly
upon the floor.

It is another day, I thank the Lord for another chance to serve Him.

This day will be a blessing to someone, maybe God will use me to me a
tool in that blessing.
If not, then it is still a chance for me to be blessed a I serve.

I rise and after getting ready, I begin my work as everyone does to
put food on the table.

No matter what may be your vocation in life, along your path someone
will cross your way that needs some inspiration.

Life is weighing them down.

There bills are too high; their job is filled with stress; their
family is seeking respite from all that ails them.

How can you make a difference?

Just listen. If someone complains in passing, take a moment, ask them
about what they said.

If they truly need to express what’s bothering them, they will, and
you will have the chance to hear, and if its possible respond in a
comforting way. If there is nothing God inspires you to say, or you
have no avenue of solution for their situation, then you just need to
say five words: May I pray with you?

God will give you the words to say to Him. By saying them, you will
not only uplift the need of the person you are with, but also your
own Spirit will rise in saying them.

You can both then move further along the path God has set you upon.

Let’s say you are not blessed with the ability to pray in public.

Do you know someone that can? In hearing the description of their
problem, did a person or entity you know pop into your head? That may
be a sign that you are to pass this person’s name along to another
or send them to someone else for encouragement.

Sometimes we have within us what is needed, sometimes we are simply
just the road map that shows them the next turn.

There are always bumps in every road and pot holes that need filling.
Perhaps you are meant to be there to smooth the road up a bit so
people’s system is not shocked as badly.

So, today as you plant your feet on the floor, equip you mind and
body to be a conduit for the encouragement you are capable of sharing
with whomever God sends your way.

Change your community for the better

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Across our country we are coming to the time when cities will host elections for the council members and mayors.

Often, as Americans, we look towards the big races taking folks to Washington or the state capitols around the country but we forget about those positions that are closest to us. We forget those that really have the greatest impact on our daily lives – those who run our cities, counties and school systems.

They collect and spend money that we actually see as we drive down our streets or walk along our sidewalks. When we turn on our faucets or flush our toilets, they are often responsible for delivering those services.

They hire the men who dig in the ground and install the pipes and make sure they keep flowing.

They hire the folks who run the water and waste water treatment plants.

The trash trucks which roll by our houses, they often buy them and employ those working to use them.

The police, fire and ambulances that respond to our emergency calls, they are the ones that spend our money to buy them, employ and train those coming to help.

The school buses, the teachers, the principals, the schools, the football and baseball fields, they are the ones that buy or build them for us and decide about what our children are taught and do in those places.

They build the parks and recreation facilities with our money and then decide whether to charge us to use them.

In odd years, we are mainly dealing with city officials, but they sometimes run the schools in their communities.

Ultimately, the men or women that you choose to run your city or your town control millions of dollars. They decide whether they will tax you more or charge you more for services. They decide how the money is spent. Are they spending it on things you need or pet projects to feather their credits for a higher elected goals?

Friends, I urge you to wake up and pay attention to who you are electing to run your lives. They are not always what they appear to be or what they say they are.

If you are not pleased with the ways things are going in your town. Step up and run for an office. At least attend your council meetings and share your opinions on the topics that are important to you.

If we do not make the effort to create the communities we want to live in, then we and our families will be the worse for it.

Please pay attention to your city and town council elections. Just because someone has been in office doesn’t mean they are the best person for the job. There are many who serve just because no one else better is willing to run and endure the slings and arrows of public life.

I have been there. I have served as an elected council member. You can too, that is, if you want to improve where you call home.

 It’s hot, I’m hot, you hot?

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I pedaled as hard as I could up the hill. I was headed to my best
friends house hoping to get a group together to head to the pool.
I wasn’t much of a swimmer but in the heat of the summer, spending
some time there on a hot day broke up the heat.
As long as you were in the water you were cool. The only thing that
was hot was the cement when you got out and walked in your bare feet.
It made a huge difference on those long summer days. We were too far
to bike to the pool, so we had to convince an adult to drive and drop
us off or go swimming themselves.
Usually, we could find someone to take; it was harder to get a ride
back. No one wanted to haul wet kids in their cars. Especially, if
the car they drove had cloth seats in it. Sometimes you got lucky and
found someone with vinyl seats or simply a pickup truck, so we could
all just climb in and sit in the bed. There were none of those pesky
rules about car seats and such back then.
As I mentioned, I wasn’t much on swimming but I had learned all the
basic strokes and enjoyed it to keep cool. It took me a few summers
to work up to it but eventually I got brave enough to climb the high
dive and go in. The short dive was never a problem. Heights were not
my thing. The diving board with water under it wasn’t that scary, I
think I was more afraid of doing a belly flop at that distance. It
not only hurt pretty badly. I know from experience. But you would get
a pretty good teasing from everyone.
I had enough of that without doing anything!
Anyway, the pool was a respite from long days out in the heat riding
the roads on my bike, playing hard in someone’s yard, or playing
board games while sitting in someone’s floor. Of course, no one had
air conditioning, so being outside after a certain time of the day
was actually better than being inside. You found a shady spot and
hoped for a breeze if you got too hot.
We often played games in the woods. The tree cover generally brought
the heat down by about 10 degrees or more. So, we built a lot of
forts and had a lot of imaginary battles.
About 3:30 in the afternoon, we would hear the sounds of music coming
from the ice cream truck, and if we managed to save up enough we
would line up for some frozen treat that made the day. They didn’t
last long. It lasted just enough time without melting to make it
worthwhile. The frozen cone dipped in chocolate with nuts was a
favorite or sometimes the push up. orange sherbet.
If we did get to go home at some point, we would run for the kitchen
open the refrigerator and stand there letting the cool air flow
around us. Of course, that always got the admonishment of my mother
if she caught me. But it was worth it some of the time.
The heat reminds of those days. Maybe not fondly, but I look back
with a since of nostalgia that does cause me to long a bit for those
times again.
I have however figured out how to reduce those urges and it seems to
work. I turn off my air conditioning for a couple of hours and go
open the refrigerator door and look longingly inside feeling the cool
air pour out around me.
It’s not quite the same without my mother’s raised voice coming
from the other room, but it does ease the nostalgia just a bit.