A fist in the air

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I waited as long as I could to type these words into my computer because I was praying for the inspiration needed to provide some words that might be appropriate for any readers whose eyes might find their way in front of them.

I have lived now through two shootings of Presidents – Ronald Reagan and Donald Trump. My extended maternal family includes four who were killed and one who was wounded – Presidents Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, James A. Garfield, William McKinley, and Theodore Roosevelt.

When the news announced the shooting of President Reagan, I remember the fear and worry for he and Nancy brought on me when I heard and saw it. I looked up to them both. But I also looked up to President Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter, who I had known since childhood. That use to be OK, you respected and looked up to those who took on the mantle of leadership that we gave them.

I was preparing to entertain at a concert Saturday night, when I was told by some attendees about the shooting of President Trump. I have never met him, although I have shook hands with Don, Jr. and know many who are in his circle from my time serving as a local elected official. Unlike the others listed above, I have no familial ties with the Trump family, so other than the fact he has always been part of my life through his media exposure and seeing all he did and tried to do for Americans like myself during his four years in office, he has my appreciation as my president.

At the concert, I led those who attended in prayer for President Trump, for the others shot and their families and for all who were forever changed by witnessing this. I prayed for our country, for our leaders, that our shared love of America could bring us together to further the principals of this great experiment created under the greatest generation of thinkers and patriots to ever live.

It was many hours later that I was able to become more familiar with what came to pass through the videos and eye witness accounts available online. The strength of spirit exhibited by President Trump under fire and threat of fire was amazing. The love and dedication of the men and women in that crowd who also stood their ground under fire and were more concerned about the president, protecting their families and their fellow attendees than themselves. Had the crowd ran rather than going to the ground, many more could have been injured. The selfless attendees who responded to help those who were shot and comfort those with them was inspiring. And the outpouring of support for the victims and their families is heartwarming. My prayers go out to the family of Corey Comperatore, who gave his life protecting his family, and the other injured victims whose names I do not know.

As I write, the Republican Convention is underway and President Trump is now the nominee and he has just named his running mate as Senator J.D. Vance. Despite the fact that such an outcome was a couple of millimeters from not occurring just 48 hours earlier, President Trump and the American political process is moving on.

I will not sugar coat the fact that what I have seen the last couple of days has moved me greatly. I have found myself holding back tears several times. That is why I wanted to write these words. I know I cannot be the only person who is hurting by seeing what happened. To see where the country I love has come. To see the work my family members fought and died for beginning in 1775 all the way up to the present being treated so recklessly. Now, I know this is not new, obviously based on the list of cousins I have lost to this type of violence. On many occasions, my ancestors would challenge someone to a dual over a point of pride or a political difference if that difference was pushed to insults. That is true of many of our leaders especially in the first 125 years of our republic.

Civil society left those practices behind by in large decades ago. But perhaps that is the problem, perhaps we are once again moving away from a civil society. Impressionable people are being brainwashed by others – politicians, educators, media and others to the point of violent acts to get whatever it is they want or whatever they have been taught will save the world. Is this the direction we want for our future?

Granted our ancestors fought a Civil War when we could not solve our political differences; we overcame political differences, social, political, economic and equality ills struggling forward during the suffragette, labor, and Civil Rights movements, and many were injured and died during these struggles. But in my opinion those brave men and women were struggling to further the more perfect union ascribed to and dreamed upon by our founders. And through the years, we marched ever closer to that realization of those hopes.

I saw a man last Saturday get up off the stage, bloodied by an assassin’s bullet, probably somewhat angered, probably greatly worried about his family and those who had come to see him, who defiantly and boldly reached his fist in the air not knowing if another shot might be close at hand to take him out. The words he chose to say to Americans was “Fight, Fight, Fight.” In my opinion he was letting everyone know that he was OK and no matter what happens not to give up on our country. That video and the images captured around it were those that photographers live a lifetime hoping to snap. They will endure as long as America does. I pray that Americans can see it is time for our country to come together and work in unity rather than spending our time fighting among ourselves. Otherwise, we won’t have a country to fight over, because our enemies, many who are within our borders, are inch by inch working to take America and the founders dreams for it away from us.

May I ride in your little red wagon

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I slowly filled in white letters on the side of my red Radio Flyer. The restoration project of the wagon which had pulled around neighborhood friends, dogs and all kinds of childhood toys along Warwick Circle and the surrounding area was now complete.

Why? You may ask. Well, when I was about six, that bright red wagon was sitting with a bow on it under the Christmas tree. It had come from the local hardware store and was something I am sure I had asked for, although I don’t remember that aspect of history.

It became a constant companion through my childhood years, pulled behind me by hand or tied to the back of bicycles, ridden down hills, and always signified happier childhood adventures.

I managed to hold onto it through the years and I realized that it would make a great platform for the small Christmas tree that I set up.

So, I decided to restore it back to its original condition. I brushed away any rust that might have popped up through the years, and then gave it a nice coat of red, black and touched up the white lettering and wheels. I shined up the tires and got those looking sharp.

Sometimes, we just need to do something that brings a sense of accomplishment to our inner child. Revitalizing a piece of our history in a way it might again be put to use was such a blessing to me.

In many respects, I have become the custodian of many family heirlooms through the years. Appliances like pedal sewing machines, furniture passed down – bedroom, dressers, oil lamps, walking canes, photos, and other items.

The care of these, so they might be passed down to another generation, is an important aspect of who I am and my overall tasks in my life. I was entrusted in these efforts by loved ones no longer here. Will they know what happened to them. I doubt if they are keeping an eye on me or them from the other side, but its still my charge.

I have managed to bring several of these back from poor condition in hopes these will be valued by whichever relative ultimately receives each item.

No matter how long we may hope we walk this earth, we are not promised tomorrow. Only today is within our grasp, and our hold on it is totally in the purview of God.

We are to leave things better than we found them. For me, that is my constant hope. I try to make things entrusted to me better than they were.

I couldn’t make my childhood wagon new again, but I could make it look a close as possible and find a use that would give me joy in seeing it annually when I pull it out for Christmas and fill it with decorations that remind me of the happy family times.

So, for me the adventure of restoration, made my inner child happy and once a year it brings a smile to adult me as it enhances the joy of Christmas. Find something to restore in your life that will make you happy.

I hope the mention of Christmas has brought a bit of cool thought into your summer. We could use a bit less heat where I live!

Ripples run

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Ripples float endlessly across the lake as a large frog croaks in the distance.

The line running from the end of my pole drifts slightly with the light current pulling away to my left as the red and white float
moves with the ripples.

I had spent much of my time working thus far in my first fishing adventure to bring the hook with the worm slid upon it into the
drink.

My childhood adventures of fishing with my dad, especially early in the learning process reflected the scenarios of the episode of “The
Andy Griffith Show” where “Howard Sprague” went fishing with Andy and the rest of the guys only to spend more time with his hook
in a tree or his own pants than in the water.

In retrospect, my dad’s patience as he taught me the process and answered the questions the younger version of myself asked was
amazing. Why do fish eat worms? Why do we have to put the hook through the worms, can’t we just throw them out and let the fish
eat them? Why do we have a float on the line?

Why do I do better throwing the line behind me rather than in front of me?

These are just a few that I recollect in the process.

My father was someone much like myself – outdoor sports were not really his thing – but he felt it was important that I learned them,
that we shared the experiences that he had shared with his father and uncles. There are lessons that are shared in the midst of the
teaching that settle deeper beyond the immediate task at hand.

The bonds created between a father and son through positive joint experiences; respect for the world around us and the other people and
creatures who share it with us; and an understanding about what is expected of you when you are a man.

I am so glad that he did take this time with me, oftentimes, it seemed strategically placed around tough points in my life when I
needed the input, the lesson, the hope, the insights that he wanted to share.

Establishing the groundwork at a younger age, when the years passed allowed us a smoother path.

When as an older teen, I wished to push the bounds of our relationship by asserting my own authority on my life, we were able
to work through those tense moments when I was spreading my wings, and make them teachable moments in the life experience. They added to
our relationship rather than pushing us farther from each other.

Perhaps my father’s early passing set my prospective of our relationship forever in the nostalgia of my youth. We never really
got to the good stuff of the best friend relationship that should have happened as time went on because he was still having to spend
time being my dad. Not that such a role would have ever ended, but as I was able to take on more of the responsibilities for my life after
college, I would have hoped that the lessons could have taken on a different form.

It is in this time of the year, that my father’s memory seems closest to me, because we shared so much in the summer months. I am
thankful that God sent me to be in family where I had two parents who were present and participating. So many youths do not, and as the
news of the world seeps into my life, I can’t help but wonder if a few more participating, present mothers and fathers would have
prevented many of the headlines which plaque our country.

Are you present in your children’s lives? Are you teaching them the lessons needed? Do they respect other people, creatures, and
cultures? If they don’t, may I suggest a fishing trip. There is something iconic and idyllic about those opening TV shots of Andy and
Opie Taylor walking with fishing poles in hand along a country road. Funny how so many long for the simplicity portrayed. We may never
have it, but it never hurts to take the walk.

“So, take down your fishin’ pole.”

Glistening from the heat

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I watched the white shears wave gently back and forth in the windows of the living room as the breeze eased its way into the house.

It was an extraordinarily hot day. By midmorning the coolness gained in the previous night had given way to the demands of the sun making everyone glisten in anticipation for the afternoon that would change all of us into a cross between a drenched cat and a swimmer climbing out of the deep spot in the creek. That is except for the woman folk whose glistening would be fought off by the thick application of scented powder on face, arms, and torso.

When the heat was so extreme, I often thought the ladies in my neighborhood carried a powder puff with them everywhere they went.

When there was no breeze and absolutely no chance of finding relief by a stroll by the creek of sitting in the shade of a massive oak, the ladies would gather up the young folks and load us into station wagons and away we would be whisked for an afternoon of looking and feeling at Woolworth’s, JC Penney’s or Richs which all had the tremendous advancement of air conditioning. If we were lucky that might materialize into a visit to an air conditioned theater to watch a movie carrying us through the heat of the day so that by suppertime, we would be able to gather in the breeze on the porch or in the yards.

It is amazing how the heat never really bothered me much as a kid. I knew it was hot but that was just the way it was and we did what we wanted to creating adventures around the neighborhood. We built forts out of down tree limbs, gathered pine cones storing them up for massive battles between each other. We ran, rode our bicycles, played baseball, football, kick ball, dodge ball, whatever brought us together and created activities allowing us to engage with one another. I was at a disadvantage in much of these activities due to my health but despite limitations, I tried allowing me to win sometimes, fail sometimes and build the initial experiences upon which my life would be built.

The street lights would come on and after supper, most of the kids would gather in the street for a game of baseball as the parents and neighbors sat in chairs on porches, stoops or under trees cheering us on as we gave it our all.

I can still see myself wearing a pumpkin colored short sleeve shirt half buttoned up with burgundy colored shorts standing in the middle of the street playing outfielder with my older brother’s baseball give. I would try to catch the next pop fly that Bruce, Jennifer, Charlotte, Art or Bubba might hit and then coming up to bat only to be out as I rounded the man hole cover, which was second base, as Kay or Charles tagged me. Eventually as the darkness enveloped us, we each would hear the calling home of one of our parents and we would give in, relinquishing another day to powers beyond our control. As we reached the doors, we looked like we had a bath and often smelled like we needed one.

For many of us that was shortly our next stop before a few minutes of TV and then off to bed until the sun summoned our rise again as it sent its rays through the holes in the window shears making a funny design on our faces and pillow.

The smell of bacon cooking would draw us to wipe the sleep from our eyes, hurriedly throw on some clothes and move us towards the kitchen to begin another odyssey of adventure among our family and friends. The sound of the slamming of the screen door, and the heat of the day often beckons such sweet memories that are seared into my memory when life was not as comfortable but each day held such opportunities.