Dirt Roads, Family, and A Crush Worth Remembering

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The dust of the dirt road rose around my sneakers as I walked from Aunt Lockie’s house.

My Aunt Lockie—my maternal grandmother’s sister—was one of a kind. To call her “unique” would be an understatement.

She had a gift for finding fun in any situation.

When I was a child, my mother made a point of visiting her regularly.

I looked forward to those trips, not for the parlor conversations, but for the moment I could slip outside to play.

The summer heat always felt thicker there. Her yard brimmed with flowering bushes where bees hummed busily.

There weren’t any toys or playmates, but I never minded. My imagination turned the quiet yard into grand adventures: I was a swashbuckling pirate aboard the Bounty, a Confederate soldier dodging Yankees in the Civil War, or a GI evading Germans in World War I.

The older folks often gathered in the evenings, swapping faded stories of those conflicts—tales passed down from parents, uncles, and siblings. The actual veterans rarely spoke; some pains, it seemed, were not meant to be relived.

I’d play until I was drenched in the happy sweat of childhood, then burst back into the adult world. “Can I have a quarter?” I’d ask, already eyeing permission to walk to the country store for a Crush. On occasion the request would prompt a group walk but this time it was just me.

That store’s electric chest cooler was a treasure chest. You’d slide back the heavy lid and peer into a frosty sea of glass bottles—every flavor imaginable: Orange, Strawberry, Peach, Watermelon, Lemon-Lime, Blue Raspberry, and more. The real adventure was picking one you’d never tried.

After paying, I’d pop the cap on the counter opener, step outside, and settle into the shade.

A Crush wasn’t for gulping; it was for savoring, like discovering a new favorite song.

Around me, neighbors chatted over their own bottles, swapping local news and the events of the day.

The store felt less like a shop and more like a big, open-air living room.

Once the bottle was empty, I’d return it for the five-cent refund, then spend the rest—plus whatever remained of my quarter—on a candy bar. Zero’s were my favorite. I loved the white fudge covering and the chewy caramel insides.

I’d kick up dust with the white soles of my sneakers all the way back, savoring every bite.

If my timing was right, my parents would be wrapping up their visit just as I returned.

We’d pile into the car while Aunt Lockie stood in the yard, waving until we disappeared from sight.

She lived to be a centenarian, but what I remember most isn’t a list of facts—it’s the easy comfort and love I always felt around her.

That warmth stayed with me into adulthood, surfacing whenever I had the chance to sit and pass the time of day with her.

Some people don’t need many words to leave a lasting mark. Aunt Lockie was one of them.

Read more of Randall’s writings in his books found in our Store.

Solitude and Connection: How Do We Find Our Balance?

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For better or worse, I have spent roughly a third of my life in my own company.
Of course, you’ll say we all do that. What I mean is only my own company. My days have been filled with me pursuing my goals and doing whatever I felt would be productive.

One might call that lonely. At times it feels that way, but by and large those moments are fleeting. The hours are consumed by activity—striving toward physical, creative, or career goals. It is nice, however, to have someone to talk with about what you’re doing. Those people are usually our closest friends or family members. Finding someone who truly fits that bill has always been difficult for me. My family maintained a great deal of privacy, and that is still our way.

It may sound like a contradiction for someone who has spent so much of his life in public roles—as an actor, entertainer, or public servant—but I have always tried to guide my steps with balance. Only a few people have ever brought me to the point of raising my voice, and they were almost always immediate family members or a long-term girlfriend who had become like family. Even then, I rarely initiated conflict. I never liked arguments; I saw them as a waste of energy that rarely helped accomplish the task at hand. Sometimes, though, the other person simply has a “mad on” and needs to get it out. In those moments you can either absorb it quietly or respond in kind.

As an actor I’ve learned that conflict lies at the heart of drama. It’s what keeps audiences glued to show after show and movie after movie. I know how to portray theatrical conflict convincingly—because I’m paid to do exactly that. In real life, however, my walk is smoother when I engage with others in a civil and logical manner.

According to my beliefs, we pass through this life only once. I would rather spend it making strides toward goals that benefit both myself and the world around me. I want to uplift others, to keep learning and growing, and to create artistic work that moves people. These things give me balance. Everyday tasks can still tilt me off center—they often feel tedious—but they are necessary steps toward the larger goals.

Is life better without solitude? I would say those blessed with a strong family are tremendously fortunate, even when that blessing brings intense moments of fellowship (and friction).

Would I trade what I have for it? There are days I miss the large, noisy family that once surrounded me. As time passes and more of us are gone than remain, the daily walk grows a bit harder. The void is filled with friends, but even those relationships can thin with the years.

My advice is simple: start early. Build a strong immediate family that cares for one another. Strengthen ties to blood relatives and keep them close. Cultivate lasting friendships—remember that to have a friend, you must be one. Even those of us who walk with God as our constant companion benefit from having people we can reach out and touch. They are not avatars on social media. They are flesh-and-blood souls who share the journey.

Find more of Randall’s writings in his books in our Store.

When Life Tries to Steal Your Blessings – Strive

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Throughout my life, I have experienced both moments of extreme happiness and the depths of depression. Circumstances, relationships, and sometimes our own decisions can push us to either end of that spectrum.

Early in life, I often looked to others to make me happy. Not that I couldn’t find happiness on my own, but having someone else to focus on seemed to make it much easier. Their worlds, thoughts, and hopes gave me a welcome change and the chance to experience new things, which brought a sense of happiness. This pattern, however, also created codependency that would devastate me whenever those relationships ended, swinging me to the opposite end of the spectrum.

After working through those periods and realizing this was not a healthy way to live, I began developing my own internal “happiness meter.” It allowed me to find simple pleasures in the things I enjoyed—without everything revolving around other people.

In many ways, my blessings became the places, the activities, and the memory-making opportunities. The companions were still important, but they took on a different role. They were no longer the center of what I was doing; instead, they were fellow enthusiasts who simply enjoyed the same activities, places, or events.

Happiness can be found in simple things. It doesn’t require big, elaborate trips—the kind I once thought were necessary. Real joy often comes from completing a project, improving one’s health by reaching a new physical goal, learning new skills, or discovering fresh opportunities to explore.

If you know me, you know I love fiddling. It has been at the close to the center of my life since I was about eight years old. I love hearing and watching other players, being around fellow musicians, and most of all, performing with my fiddle. Sharing my time and energy to uplift the tradition brings me great happiness—whether at a regional fiddle contest, a concert, or special events like the Grand Master Fiddler Championship, now held at the theater at The Factory in Franklin, Tennessee in September, which I have hosted for 18 years, or judging at the Smithville Jamboree in Smithville, Tennessee.

Though the hours can be draining, exhilaration always comes from the activities, the music, and the people.

No matter what your joys in life may be, the old devil can try to steal the very blessings that bring you uplift.

Recently, while headed to Smithville, my reliable old Explorer decided it wasn’t going to make the trip—about halfway there. On a holiday weekend, I found myself sitting on the side of the highway in over 100-degree heat, trying to figure out what to do next. After about 40 minutes, I arranged for a wrecker service from back home to tow the vehicle to a local garage. A good friend then dropped everything to drive me to the airport so I could rent a car. After loading my belongings into the rental, I went home, changed out of my sweat-drenched clothes, and got back on the road. I arrived only five hours later than I had originally planned.

The event itself went beautifully; we managed to work around the heat and sporadic rain. Toward the end of the second day, however, another challenge appeared: an unexpected storm drenched my merchandise table and ruined a significant amount of inventory.

It would have been easy for the breakdown, the anticipated costs of the tow and repairs, and the loss of merchandise to leave me angry, sad, frustrated, and short-tempered with everyone around me. But that didn’t happen. I stayed in my place of blessing and refused to let the old devil steal my joy, no matter what he sent my way.

You can control where your mind goes and how you react. This trip could have been miserable, but I chose to make it anything but. I shared wonderful conversations with old friends, heard amazing music, and watched talented dancers. I even had an interesting conversation with the tow truck driver during the roughly hour-long trip back home.

Making the best of a bad situation can keep your blessings intact and thwart the enemy’s attempts to steal them. I wish that for you always.

Read more of Randall’s writings in his books at the Store .

When the Bucket Returns: Childhood Pranks

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I remember as a child, especially when the family gathered, there were always more children than you could shake a stick at.

When you put a bunch of boys together, they often got into mischief—usually by playing pranks on each other. Sometimes they would even gang up and pull one over on some of the girls in the group.

Sometimes that mischief involved a bucket. It could be filled with water, ice, dirt, worms, or anything else someone might not enjoy having poured over their head.

Of course, it was all in good fun, and the favor was soon returned in full measure when one least expected it.

Sometimes adult life brings similar moments, when it feels as though fate—or something else—puts you squarely in the crosshairs of a bucket filled with the unimaginable. It may not be as messy as those childhood pranks, but it can feel just as heavy when it lands on your head.

As children we knew the rules: get drenched, howl with laughter, and wait for the perfect moment to strike back. But these adult buckets don’t come with a return policy. Once they’re emptied over you, you’re left standing there wondering how to dry off when the water keeps coming from somewhere else.

For me, this past week felt exactly like that. I would wake up to a message or a call and feel the first cold spray hit. By mid-morning another drop would land, then another, until the whole week felt like standing under a faucet someone had forgotten to turn off. Even the good news from earlier in the month now felt strangely distant, like sunlight I could see but no longer feel on my skin.

After some wonderful, uplifting moments I had long chased and desired, each day that week brought news of another passing—first two musical friends, then a cousin and a coworker, then another musical friend, and finally a musical hero.

Each one chipped a little more paint from my surface, leaving my life a bit more exposed and my emotions raw to the touch.

When life turns on a dime and the hopes and dreams of what lies ahead are suddenly sidelined by an unexpected death, it’s sometimes hard to understand how one day everything can be on the right road and the next the path disappears into the fog and haze of grief.

Maybe the work isn’t to find the old road again, but to learn how to walk through fog without needing to see the whole path at once—trusting that the next step will eventually become visible, and that someone else might be walking it with us.

Find more of Randall’s writings in his books at the Store.

Edward Uptegrove: A Virginia Patriot Story

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Among the earliest German settlers in Pennsylvania were a Mennonite group known as the “Original 13” families. This included three brothers—Derick (Dirk), Herman, and Abraham Op den Graeff—who arrived aboard the ship Concord on October 6, 1683. They helped found Germantown (now part of Philadelphia) and, in 1688, signed the Germantown Quaker Petition Against Slavery—the first organized religious protest against slavery in the colonies.

It was Isaac Vanbibber Op Den Graeff’s son, Edward Uptegrove (also spelled Updegrove or similar), who was born around 1739 in Pennsylvania. He married Sarah Lewis, and together they had at least six to eleven children, including Isaac Uptegrove (1761–1817); Susanna/Susannah Uptegrove (1760–1840), who married Benjamin Melton in Albemarle County in 1787; Hannah Uptegrove (1770–1854), who married Elisha Collins in Albemarle in 1794; Solomon Updegrove; and others who later simplified the surname to “Groves” after moving to North Carolina.

In the mid-to-late 1760s, the young family migrated to Albemarle County, Virginia—a rapidly developing Piedmont frontier region of rolling hills and fertile river valleys. Still largely rural and agricultural, the county was transitioning from wilderness clearings to established plantations and small settlements, with Charlottesville emerging as its new courthouse village.

As murmurings of revolution grew, local leaders—including a young Thomas Jefferson—organized resistance. In 1774, Albemarle County held meetings opposing British policies. In spring 1775, following the Gunpowder Incident (when Virginia’s royal governor Lord Dunmore seized colonial gunpowder in Williamsburg), the county formed an Independent Company of militia. Roughly 155 volunteers (later growing to nearly 300) marched toward Williamsburg to demand the powder’s return or compensation, though they turned back before any major confrontation.

Local men also enlisted in Virginia Continental regiments, such as the 14th Virginia, which fought in major northern campaigns like Brandywine and Germantown. The county supplied recruits, provisions, and militia musters. Edward likely first felt the Revolution through committee activities and musters in the mid-1770s, with demands increasing by the late 1770s.The war arrived physically in 1778–1779 with the transfer of thousands of British and German (Hessian) prisoners captured at Saratoga. Starting in early 1779, the Albemarle Barracks (near Charlottesville along what is now Barracks Road) housed up to about 4,000 prisoners. This placed a tremendous logistical burden on the rural county, bringing economic activity, security concerns, escapes, and constant interactions with the community as locals supplied food and guards.

Benedict Arnold’s British invasion of Virginia in late 1780 prompted the Virginia legislature to relocate temporarily to Charlottesville for safety. The county remained relatively quiet on the battlefield until June 1781, when Banastre Tarleton’s raiders struck Charlottesville itself, aiming to capture the legislature and Governor Jefferson. The raid brought direct combat, property damage, and chaos—partially thwarted by Jack Jouett’s famous nighttime ride.

At the height of Virginia’s crisis, Edward stepped away from raising his young family to answer the call. As a private in the Albemarle County militia in 1781, he joined thousands of everyday Virginians who shouldered muskets to defend their homes. That pivotal year, traitor Benedict Arnold’s forces torched Richmond, while “Bloody Ban” Tarleton’s cavalry threatened the heart of Albemarle. Local militia scrambled to protect families, supplies, and the prisoner barracks while supporting the broader campaign that funneled British troops toward Yorktown.

Though no single battle bears Uptegrove’s name, his service embodied the quiet resolve of local defenders whose vigilance helped secure victory at Yorktown in October 1781. He returned to civilian life but died by 1785, leaving a patriot legacy recognized by the Daughters of the American Revolution (Ancestor #A117995).Uptegrove’s story reminds us that the Revolution was won not only on famous battlefields but also in county militias across the land. His descendants spread across the frontier, carrying pride in Edward’s service and instilling that commitment to country in generations to come.

Edward Uptegrove is Randall’s maternal 6th Great Grandfather.

Read more of Randall’s writing in his books from his Store.

Ordinary Heroes: The Remarkable Founders of America

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There are many ways to celebrate the founding of our country. Two hundred and fifty years ago, 56 men gathered to debate how the 13 colonies would move forward as a new nation. These delegates came from every colony, representing a remarkable cross-section of American life. Some were wealthy and well-established in their professions, while others were ordinary tradesmen and farmers. That, in many ways, was what America’s early years were all about. It wasn’t about nobility or inherited privilege—it was about ordinary people having a voice in shaping their future whether they were in that room or serving near their home.

One such man was frontier farmer Thomas Arnett Sr. (1740–1808) of Augusta County, Virginia. Soon after the battles of Lexington and Concord, he volunteered as a private in Captain Pryor’s Militia Company. In addition to his military service, he contributed 300 pounds of flour from his modest farm to support the Continental Army. From 1775 until the war’s end, Arnett found multiple ways to have his say in the struggle for independence.

The spirit of resistance first took root in Boston, where tradesmen and ordinary citizens publicly objected to the Crown’s oppressive taxes, beginning with the Stamp Act. The Sons of Liberty emerged from that early resistance, spreading the cause of liberty across the colonies from the shadow of Boston’s Liberty Tree. Declaration signer Samuel Adams was a founding member of the group. Though he struggled financially as a businessman—he even lost the family brewery—his passion for creating a free nation proved far more valuable. Through his tireless efforts, Adams helped lay the groundwork for generations to come.

Another signer, George Walton of Georgia, rose from humble beginnings. Orphaned young and raised by an uncle, he was apprenticed to a carpenter. Largely self-educated, he became a lawyer and eventually served as governor of Georgia.

Signer Abraham Clark of New Jersey showed little interest in personal wealth. As an attorney, he devoted much of his practice to helping ordinary people who could not afford legal representation. Contemporaries described him as “limited in his circumstances, moderate in his desires, and unambitious of wealth.”

It was John Adams of Massachusetts who famously observed that about one-third of the population supported the Revolution, one-third remained Loyalist, and one-third stayed neutral. Among the founders who shaped the nation’s spirit, Adams stands out as one of the most influential. He was often unpopular among his fellow delegates, largely because of his relentless push for independence. It was Adams who helped steer the young Thomas Jefferson of Virginia into the role of primary author on the committee tasked with drafting the colonies’ grievances against King George III.

That committee included Adams, Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania, Roger Sherman of Connecticut, and Robert R. Livingston of New York. It was Virginia’s Richard Henry Lee who first advanced the cause with his resolution declaring the colonies “free and independent states” in June 1776. The committee was formed in response, and by July they had prepared a draft for debate.

In his original draft, Jefferson included a powerful condemnation of the slave trade and slavery itself. Unfortunately, that passage was struck out after objections from delegates in both the northern and southern colonies. While the focus remained on achieving independence, the ideal of freedom for all had been planted—though it would take nearly another century and the lives of hundreds of thousands of soldiers before that ideal began to be realized.

The Congress approved the final text on July 4, 1776—the date we celebrate as our nation’s founding. The actual signing of the engrossed document took place primarily on August 2, 1776, a moment famously reflected in John Trumbull’s iconic 1818–1819 painting of the June 28th presentation by the committee.

Among the signers, Roger Sherman of Connecticut stands in a class by himself. A self-made man who began his working life as a cobbler, Sherman is the only delegate to sign all four of the nation’s foundational documents: the Continental Association; the Declaration of Independence, the Articles of Confederation, the U.S. Constitution, and he also served on the committee that helped draft the Bill of Rights. A version of the Bill of Rights in his handwriting still exists today.

These men—and the countless ordinary citizens who supported them—created something unprecedented in world history. In an age dominated by monarchies, they offered the radical idea that ordinary people could govern themselves. They gave the world a new hope for freedom and self-determination. Two hundred and fifty years later, that experiment continues. Whether by attending a Revolutionary War reenactment, participating in a grave marking ceremony for one of these patriots, joining a local Independence Day celebration, or watching a parade, there are many meaningful ways to honor their extraordinary legacy this year. If that isn’t worth celebrating, I don’t know what is.

The columnist is related to Thomas Arnett Sr., paternal 6th Great Grandfather; and he is related to 48 signers of the Declaration including most of those mentioned above.

Read other writings from Randall Franks in his books: Store

I wonder where does the time go?

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Each day I find myself rising and trying to find my way through a long list of tasks that need my attention. Sometimes I wonder why the list does not shorten, but it continues to remain steady. The list of course contains many of the same ones you have on yours—washing, cleaning, mowing, trimming, and a myriad of daily tasks: cooking, shopping, errands and other routines. Those are always on the list.
Then I decide to add to the list constantly for my career—more writing, more music, more personal appearances. With each choice the list grows. Volunteering and public service makes the list also, adding additional hours and tasks to be done.
I was talking with someone this week, sharing how since April I have been trying to get a chance to plow my garden spot and get something planted, but between the to-do list and the rain, it’s just not come to pass.
That’s what got me wondering: Where does the time go?
It’s a question we all mutter when weeks, months or even years suddenly slip away unnoticed—a rhetorical sigh that captures surprise, nostalgia and a touch of regret about how fast life moves. It’s not asking for a literal answer (time doesn’t “go” anywhere physical); it’s an emotional outburst about the fleeting nature of our days, a modern cousin to the ancient Latin tempus fugit—“time flees.”
Science offers some comfort for why it feels this way. As we age, each year becomes a smaller slice of our total life so far. A year that felt endless to a five-year-old (20 percent of everything they’d ever known) is only two percent by age fifty. That’s the proportional theory of time perception, first laid out by philosopher Paul Janet in 1897. On top of that, our brains collect fewer fresh “novel frames”—distinct memories—once routines set in. The same commute, the same chores, the same deadlines blur together, so entire seasons vanish in hindsight. Even our mental “frame rate” slows; we simply take in fewer snapshots per second, making days race by like a video played at half speed.
I know that each day I aim at completing a number of tasks before I turn around and find it’s time to hit the hay—and then, in eight hours, I start again. That old idiom itself carries a quiet echo of simpler times. “Hit the hay” dates back to the early 19th century, when many mattresses were literally sacks stuffed with hay or straw. “Hitting the hay” meant flopping down onto that scratchy, farm-style bed at the end of a long day—the same humble origin behind its cousin phrase, “hit the sack.”
So here we are, lists unchanged, garden still waiting, another sunrise already on the horizon. The real wonder isn’t that time vanishes; it’s how little of it we notice while we’re living it. Maybe the question isn’t “Where does the time go?” but what we choose to do with the small, steady portion that’s still right here in front of us.
Find more of Randall’s writings in his books at the Store.

Creating Positive Momentum: Small Steps, Lasting Change

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Sometimes we work toward making positive momentum in our lives. We’ve all been there. These steps can take many forms, and they rarely arrive with fanfare or a dramatic soundtrack. More often they begin quietly — a decision, a small action, or simply the recognition that something needs to shift.

For some, momentum looks like a career move. I haven’t had one of those in many years, at least not in the traditional sense. Public service in political office might qualify, but even then the distinction matters. At the state or national level, it can become a genuine career with resources and staff. At the local level, however, there’s very little money involved, so I’ve never viewed it that way. It’s service, not a stepping stone.

For others, momentum takes the shape of an entrepreneurial adventure — launching a product, starting a business, or bringing an idea into the world. In my case, that has meant publishing my new book, Frankly Speaking: Thoughts on This and That. After years of notes, reflections, and scattered drafts, seeing it finally take shape felt like building real forward energy.

Sometimes the push is more domestic. It might be tackling that long-undone project around the house — the one that has quietly become part of the scenery. For me, it’s the growing piles that gather dust: materials waiting to be organized into scrapbooks, old mail that needs shredding, work papers that still require filing, and the miscellaneous accumulation of years that somehow never quite gets addressed. Each time I chip away at one small corner of it, I feel the satisfying click of momentum.

And then there are the deeply personal changes — the ones that happen inside our own skin. Losing weight. Establishing a better exercise routine. Stopping an annoying habit. Personally, I don’t think I need to lose weight, though I know I can always improve my life with more consistent exercise (which tends to take care of the weight question anyway). As for annoying habits, I believe I’ve cast most of them into the dust bin of the past. I pray regularly to keep them there, and so far that discipline has served me well.

The question that lingers for all of us is this: What is the best approach to create and maintain momentum once we decide to move forward?

From what I’ve observed in my own life and in the lives of people around me, momentum rarely comes from grand, sweeping resolutions. It comes from something steadier and more humble: choosing a direction and then protecting the small, daily actions that keep you facing that way.

First, clarity matters. It helps to name the thing you actually want — not the vague “I should get organized” or “I should exercise more,” but something specific enough to act on. “I will spend fifteen minutes each morning sorting one pile of papers.” “I will walk three times this week.” “I will write one page of the book every weekday.” Specificity turns intention into a plan.

Second, start ridiculously small. The bigger the leap we try to make, the more likely we are to stall. Tiny steps build confidence and reduce the friction that kills momentum before it begins. A single drawer cleaned out. One paragraph written. One evening without the old habit. These micro-victories accumulate and, more importantly, they train us to trust ourselves again.

Third, protect the chain. Momentum loves consistency more than intensity. Missing one day is usually harmless; missing two or three in a row is where the slide begins. Simple tools help here — a visible calendar where you mark each successful day, a friend you check in with, or even a quiet evening reflection where you ask, “Did I move forward today, even a little?”

Fourth, celebrate honestly but lightly. Acknowledge the progress without turning it into a production. A quiet “That felt good” or a small reward that doesn’t undo the effort (a favorite tea instead of a celebratory dessert, perhaps) keeps the emotional energy positive without creating new problems.

Finally, stay compassionate with yourself when progress slows. Life has a way of interrupting even the best-laid plans. The difference between people who maintain long-term momentum and those who don’t often isn’t talent or willpower — it’s the willingness to begin again without self-scolding. Dust yourself off, remember why you started, and take the next small step.

Whether your current momentum is aimed at a career shift, a creative project like a book, clearing out the physical or mental clutter at home, or simply becoming a healthier version of yourself, the principle remains the same: direction plus small, consistent action eventually creates real movement.

The piles in my study are smaller than they were last month. Pages of the next writing project are slowly accumulating. And each small win reminds me that positive momentum isn’t about transforming overnight. It’s about refusing to stay stuck — and choosing, day after day, to move forward just a little more than yesterday.

What about you? What small step could you take this week that would create a bit of positive momentum in your own life? Sometimes the best columns are the ones that leave us both thinking and acting.

Read more of Randall’s work in his books in the Store or on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Randall-Franks/author/B00K9XIDN4

Laughter in the Pews: Church Chuckles

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One of my readers kindly suggested I share a bit of comedy in this column to lift the spirits of folks back home. Some of the best laughs I know come from church and the honest wisdom of young’uns.

Take my nephew, for instance. A few years back he asked if he had a guardian angel.

“Sure you do,” I told him.

“Your guardian angel is always with you.”

“Does he eat with me?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“Does he sleep with me?”

“Sure.”

“Well that must have been who kicked me out of bed last night,” he said.

Kids have a way of cutting straight to the point, and so do a lot of the old church stories that still make the rounds. Like the one an older fellow told me about where radio was invented:

“In the Garden of Eden,” he said.

“What?”

“God took Adam’s rib and made the first loudspeaker.”

Then there’s that little-known fact about Noah’s Ark. Seems there were three camels on board. The first was the camel many people swallow while straining at a gnat. The second was the camel whose back was broken by the last straw. And the third was the one that shall pass through the eye of a needle before a rich man enters the kingdom of Heaven.

Of course, prayer doesn’t always bring exactly what we expect. Farmer Jud and his wife Jeweldine, a childless couple, prayed long and hard for a baby. Their answer came in the form of triplets. When the preacher congratulated them on their answered prayer, Jud just shook his head and said, “Yep, but I never prayed for a bumper crop.

”Another woman, tired of searching for the right man, finally prayed, “Lord, I’m not asking for anything for myself, but please send Mother a son-in-law.”

And then there’s the young fellow who was asked by his prospective father-in-law, “Can you support my daughter in the manner she’s accustomed to?

”The boy thought for a second and answered, “She ain’t gonna move, is she?

”I’ve always heard that bread cast upon the waters returns to you. It may be true for bread, but I’ve noticed all the bread we keep sending overseas sure doesn’t come back the same way.

Laughter has always been important in our family, even though our people tend to be stoic by nature. That stoic streak runs strong in me too. Folks often ask why I don’t smile more. Sometimes I tell them, “I’m smiling on the inside.”

Because of that, the moments of real joy and laughter mean even more to me. May laughter fill your days, friends. After all, God must have a sense of humor—otherwise He would have never made someone quite like us, would He?

Catch more of Randall’s Comedy on Itunes in Comedy Down Home: https://music.apple.com/us/album/comedy-down-home/1733917822

Read his books also for an occasional laugh, check out our store.

Adam Sherrill’s Ride: From King’s Mountain to Boyd’s Creek

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In the chill December of 1780, in the midst of a three-pronged attack against the British-aligned Cherokees, Adam Sherrill’s horse suddenly stumbled on the frozen ground near Boyd’s Creek. The rider was thrown hard amid a sharp engagement with a Cherokee war party. Pain exploded through his chest as several ribs snapped. Before he could rise, a Cherokee warrior sprang upon him, tomahawk raised for the kill. In that frozen instant, a ball from a comrade’s rifle found its mark. The attacker fell. Adam, gasping, was pulled to safety by his fellow Overmountain Men. The wound would heal, but the memory of that narrow escape—and the hard service that preceded it—would stay with him for the rest of his long life.

Lying on the rough pallet as his ribs knit together in the weeks that followed, Adam Sherrill had time to think. Time to let his mind travel back across the mountains to the journey that had brought him and his family to this hard-won victory—and forward with worry about what lay ahead for those still in the field.

The pain in his side was sharp, yet it paled beside the fire of remembrance and the ache of concern. For Adam had marched not alone, but shoulder to shoulder with his brothers George and Samuel Jr., alongside their father Samuel Wilson Sherrill Sr., and with his brother-in-law Colonel John Sevier in one of the most remarkable campaigns of the Revolutionary War.

The Journey to King’s Mountain


By 1780, Adam Sherrill, born in 1758 on the Yadkin River country of North Carolina, had already put down roots in the Watauga settlements of what would become Washington County, Tennessee. Like his brother George, he had signed the Watauga Petition in 1776, declaring the mountain people’s desire for order and protection. His brother Samuel Jr. stood with them as well. In late September of that fateful year, the brothers—Adam, George, and Samuel Jr.—along with their father, rendezvoused with Colonel John Sevier’s regiment (their brother-in-law through sister Catherine “Bonny Kate” Sherrill) at Sycamore Shoals in Carter County. There, amid the crisp autumn air and the gathering of rugged frontier riflemen, the Overmountain Men prepared to cross the Blue Ridge. The family marched as a unit of resolve. The march itself was legendary: steep mountain trails, cold rains, dwindling rations, and the knowledge that they had left their own families exposed to Indian raids. Yet they pressed on, linking with other North Carolina militia before descending on King’s Mountain on October 7. There, on that rocky knob in South Carolina, the Overmountain Men unleashed a fierce, close-quarters battle. Adam, George, Samuel Jr., and their father fought in the thick of it under Sevier as Ferguson’s command disintegrated. When the smoke cleared, Ferguson lay dead, more than 700 of his men were captured or killed, and the tide of the Southern Campaign had turned. The victory at King’s Mountain would later be called the “turning point” that led to Yorktown. For the Sherrill brothers and their father, it was simply the day they stood with kin and neighbors to help save the frontier. After the battle, they marched the prisoners up to near Gilbert’s Town in North Carolina, then on to Morganton in Burke County, before returning home. These were just a couple of the many hard engagements fought to carve out the frontier they would call home.

Return to Boyd’s Creek, Recovery, and Concern


As Adam’s ribs slowly mended after Boyd’s Creek, he could take satisfaction in the broader campaign that secured the western settlements. Yet a fresh worry gnawed at him. Still sidelined by his injuries, he could not join the continued march south with George, his brother-in-law John Sevier, and the other friends and family who pressed onward. Reinforced by Virginia troops under Colonel Arthur Campbell, they crossed the Tennessee River toward Hiwassee, destroying Cherokee towns in a punishing expedition that lasted into the new year. Adam’s concern for their safety weighed heavily during his recovery—another chapter in the family’s shared sacrifice on the volatile frontier.

Closing Reflection


Adam Sherrill would go on to marry his second wife Rebecca Kilgore in Washington County in 1789 (daughter of one of the five Kilgores of Kings Mountain), raise a family, and eventually settle at the Head of Sequatchie (Gravelly Spur area) in what became Cumberland County, Tennessee. His brother George would later recount their shared service in a pension application, preserving the memory of the Carter County rendezvous, the march to King’s Mountain, and the hard fighting that followed. Their father Samuel’s quiet participation and Samuel Jr.’s steadfast presence added further layers of family resolve. Adam died in 1827.

He left no pension application of his own, yet his service—marked by the triumph at King’s Mountain, the near-fatal moment at Boyd’s Creek, and the anxious wait while loved ones marched to Hiwassee—lives on in the stories passed down through his descendants.

In the quiet moments of recovery on that winter pallet, Adam understood what many patriots felt: the Revolution was not won in grand declarations alone, but in broken ribs, long mountain marches, rifle shots that saved a brother’s life, and the quiet worry of those left behind.

Adam Sherrill is the maternal fourth great grandfather of the author. You can learn more about his descendants in the books of Randall Franks in our store, such as A Mountain Pearl.