Sometimes there are points in life when one reflects on topics that bring worry, sadness, concern or even depression.
They can pile up on our mind like leaves falling from the trees in autumn covering the roots that feed our soul. Read more
I covered the cloth in furniture polish and pushed it across the top of the wardrobe, removing each object perched there and giving it a good going over.
When I was a boy, I always wondered what was on top of the wardrobe because I couldn’t see it. Now I wish I didn’t.
Dust seems to find its way into every place in our homes. I found it this past weekend settled in places that I was amazed it could find its way into.
Those dust bunnies that seem to playfully dance across the floors ran from my vacuum as if they were in fear for their lives. But after much effort, I managed to once again make my room a haven from the sneezing brought on by these allergens.
I have often wondered where all this dust comes from. I could understand when we kept windows and doors open to let in the cooler air, that it would sneak in from outside on those molecules which keeps us ticking.
Today though, with almost every house closed up tight to keep in the air conditioning and heat, I am amazed at what sneaks through. I have filters on every vent, yet it still gets in, piling up underneath and on top of everything that does not move.
Dust is similar to the things that we let into our lives when we pay little attention to the details as we rush through each and every day.
The words uttered by a love one, important to them, but seemingly a nuisance to us, that we appear not to hear or acknowledge — some dust piles up.
The unknown person we cut off in traffic who the goes home and yells at their child or worse yet in anger causes an accident — some dust piles up.
The task we are assigned at work that we half-heartedly complete thinking no one will notice its insufficiencies — some dust piles up.
We don’t volunteer for that much needed charity project, though we have the time, and we have the right skills to make it happen — some dust piles up.
We don’t spend time with our loved ones because we are simply too tired and need to relax by watching the game or going out with our friends — some dust piles up.
We do things, we would prefer others not know about — some dust piles up.
Easily, just like a neglected room in the house, we can allow corners of our lives to become covered in small particles that pile up. Over time, much like the whimsical dust bunnies playfully dancing across the floor, these particles build up higher and higher.
Sometimes in life the piles eventually get so high they impact our relationships with others, create problems we cannot overcome, and leave us lying in the dirt gasping for breath.
It never hurts every now and again to take up a wide angled broom, turn on every light in your house, and sweep away all the dust, making things clean again. Put the problems and struggles in the dust bin and close the lid. It is amazing how clearing the air will allow you to breathe easier.
That may sound like a strange question but after you already have a whole hoard move in on you, what’s a few more?
I was filming a movie outside Nashville when I noticed that I had an extreme need to reach down a scratch my leg again and again. I wasn’t even filming outside where you might expect them to pay a call. I just had picked the critter up along the way.
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I reached down and pulled out a freshwater oyster shell from the branch next to Washington Road and ran up to my grandma who was leaning on a fence post nearby. “Is there a chance I can find a pearl?” She looked at it and said, “You already got one, and she’s your mother.”
As I occupied my time exploring what types of rocks I could find, she was getting the mail from the box. After she closed the gate behind us, we walked back up the gravel drive to the worn whitewashed four-room farmhouse to which Grandma Kitty Bruce retired after selling the farm at the head of Sequatchie Valley. The little 18-acre place was near Dayton, Tennessee, and my grandma’s siblings and their farms. The area was where her Mama Rachel and Daddy Phil moved when they migrated from Tellico Plains, Tennessee, in the 1800s.
She stepped up onto the front porch that ran the length of the front of the house. She leaned against the second porch post and looked back down towards Washington Road, almost retracing the steps that she had made in her mind.
My Aunt “Duck” (Norma Jean) came through the screen door. It banged loudly in her wake. She was fanning herself with a folded Dayton Herald saying, “It sure is hot today … it sure is hot… What did we get in the mail? Is there anything in the mail for me?”
She sat down on the porch swing. I crawled up next to her, and grandma continued staring off into the distance.
It wasn’t long before my mother Pearl came through the house wiping her hands with a dish rag saying, “Well, I’ve got the dishes washed. Now we got to see about getting this boy of mine a bath.”
“Aw, Mom, I took one before we left home,” I said.
“Yeah, and you are going to take one before we go to town too,” she said.
The plan was already in the works, and I didn’t even know they were a-plottin’ agin me… I had been running, jumping, and enjoying the morning. It wasn’t even dinnertime, and I had already covered every inch of the place from post to post. While Mama was washing the dishes, she had been heating extra water to fill the wash barrel on the back porch.
She had pulled out a bar of grandma’s lye soap and a bristle brush, and before I could say, “scat” I was belly deep in water feeling like that brush or the soap was ripping the skin right off with every stroke.
I can still hear her a saying, “This ought to run off any chiggers you might have picked up.” ‘Course, I had chiggers too a few times, and I believe the bath was worse.
That is one thing about bath day and clothes worshing day. They were sights to behold. When you got several folks in one house all needing a good worshing and only one bath barrel on the back porch and you had to heat the water to fill her up, it took a lot of effort to keep the water replenished. Course, on real busy days that water didn’t get much changin’.
When the clothes worshing was being done, it was soap, rub boards and worshtubs. ‘Course, I do remember when Grandma got her an agitating worsher with a wringer on the top of it that you turned with a crank, and then you’d hang the clothes out to dry.
Eventually, everybody was ready, and we’d all climb into the blue and white pickup truck — mother, grandma and my aunt in the front and me in the back if I promised to be good and head to town, sometimes to the grocery, sometimes to the dime store.
I’d usually talk my grandma into gettin’ a strawberry or grape Crush at the fillin’ station. They sure did taste good on a hot July afternoon.
Occasionally, we’d just take off an’ go a-visitin’. Folks don’t do that much these days. That’s going to some kin’s house without being invited, sitting and gabbin’ for hours. Maybe helping them pick apples or tomatoes, cut okra. Sometimes the women folks would turn in and help with the cannin’ while the kids found adventures of their own or were put to work breakin’ beans.
I remember what seemed like long walks to the outhouse, especially at night when you’d drather not make that journey unless you just had no other choice.
I can see my breath rising above the handmade quilts as I lay in the old metal post bed on cold mornings. I dreaded putting my bare feet on the cold wood floor. The only advantage to getting up was in knowing when I passed through the bedroom doorway, the kitchen would be warm. I could already smell the bacon fryin’, the cathead biscuits in the stove and know that breakfast would soon warm my insides even though the outside was chilly.
This walk up that old gravel drive for me is a fond reminder of some childhood visits to Grandma Kitty’s farm in Rhea County. The time there was sometimes slow, sometimes sad, sometimes filled with joy or pain, and other times filled with angst; but no matter what the experience, it was a place that evokes a feeling of a rural South that used to be — when you wore your best to town, when you helped your neighbor, when though you may have disagreements among your kin, you came together in one accord when facing the outside world and you took care of your own.
As I scanned the banquet hall filled wall to wall with people, I saw many faces that struck a memory of meeting in the past.
Through the years with some of them, I had even become what might be described as friends. People with whom I had shared common experiences, told stories and found the opportunity to know more about. Read more
I am learning that the field of earnest debate between people is becoming an art that is no longer appreciated nor desired by many.
I will never forget the joy as a youth of learning the skills of debate, of working to bring someone who was on the other side of an issue into your interpretation of the situation.
Often as a youth, I was able to see two intelligent individuals with differing opinions, sometimes different philosophies, sit down and revel in the joy of presenting a well-thought-out position sometimes shifting to think on their feet as their opponent took a different approach.
In recent months, I have looked on so many online discussions on various topics facing our country, our communities. Many are so entrenched in their beliefs at an emotional level without any foundation of reasonable facts to debate or an ability to articulate their thoughts so others might be persuaded to their way of thinking.
If you have taken the time to read the writings of our founding fathers, you would know that often their debates were lengthy, with participants arguing points endlessly in hopes of winning others to their point of view.
Some among my family forebearers were party to these debates: my cousin John Adams was known for saying one should “Always stand on principle even if you stand alone.” His lengthy heated discussions with Thomas Jefferson helped create our founding document.
A few years later another family member James Madison fostered into our American system, the representative government we have. He said that “it is much more convenient to prevent the passage of a law, than declare it void after it is passed.”
So, in some respects, the representative form of government is an opportunity to put forward all potential sides, discuss potential problems that might arise from the approach and make the best decision to act or not to act which will best benefit all those concerned. In our form of government often an elected official must bring a long list of fellow elected officials on board to carry an idea forward into fruition.
Sadly, today, we see very little desire to do so, those elected seem to be singing to their own choir rather than working towards bringing others on board to their way of thinking.
The ability to present a good case and the ability to debate any challenges is a strong set of skills.
Unfortunately, I am coming to the conclusion that these abilities are becoming something which is no longer taught and no longer appreciated. It is so much easier just to eliminate someone that does not think like you from your friend list, cancel them, rather than possibly learning something from them.
The richness of the American experience is one that allows people of differing backgrounds, thoughts, beliefs the opportunity to come together discuss ideas and all learn something from one another. That was what our education, journalistic and political systems, and even the spice of community lives and friendships were about – growth through debate, new choices through learning from such exchange, and often a new selected path forward whether individually or collectively.
Though I am always hopeful, I do wonder whether we may ever see the vibrancy of what we once shared as an enlightened society ever again.
I reached over and picked up the can I found along the roadside and looked at it before I tossed it into a nearby trashcan. It carried me back to the carefree days when such a find would result in me kicking the can down the road for a ways.
Summer always was filled with the endless opportunity of adventures that emanated from within my head.
The can would eventually land in the edge of the woods lying by an oak stick. I would pick it up, take out my pocketknife and peel off the bark. That stick became my musket as I set out towards the fort that my friends and I had built earlier in the summer.
The stack of limbs on three sides hid a huge pile of pinecones that were collected and stored away for the next battle.
It was a weekly occurrence; my friends and I set out to re-create the frontier battles of our ancestors as they faced off with the indigenous people in the Appalachian Mountains and along the frontiers.
I always fancied myself in the roles of my cousins Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett but sometimes I also got to take on the roles of my Native American ancestors as well.
The adventures would shift as my friends and I would swap roles at times and switch to Civil War battles with some of us being Yankees and some Confederates.
No matter who we were in our play, we always got pelted with pinecones until one group out maneuvered the other, captured the fort, or ran out of ammo.
Ultimately our adventures filled our afternoons, exhausting our rambunctious natures in brief until we refocused our energies or one of us heard a motherly call to come home.
There were no personal computers and no phones that were not attached to a wall. Bicycles got us where we wanted to go, unless that motherly call meant we were headed that afternoon to town for a looking or feeling trip in an air-conditioned store or maybe to see a matinee.
Either way, we would be back in time so dinner would be on the table by six, and there would still be time for an evening baseball game on the street before the streetlights came on and we had to be in to clean up for bed.
I would kneel down by my maple twin bed and thank the Lord for the day, and ask Him to keep my parents, my friends and I safe through until another day dawned.
Those memories are still a blessing to me. I hope you have ones that bring a smile to your face and place a song in your heart.
Have you ever really wondered where it is you are from? How did your folks come to be in this place or how did you get to where you are? Can you point to some place and say that there is home?
I have spent a lot of time of late looking back upon our part in the founding of America. The men and women, their sacrifices, their words. I wrote a piece recently highlighting 48 members of my family who sat in a hot room in Philadelphia with 8 other men and hammered out the Declaration of Independence. It brought me to realize when family members work together, they can change the world.
It is really amazing how today thanks to the internet, we can know more about the people that came before us, honor their contributions or learn from their mistakes.
Have you considered that upon your back you carry the hopes and dreams of generations of people who struggled through famine, disease, war, oppression, endless hours of labor? All of their years of faith in God, effort, sometimes sacrifice, in some cases even martyrdom is now upon you to carry the family’s banner passing it to the next generation.
That is a heavy weight to consider as we lean back in our leather recliner grasping tightly to the remote flipping through the channels hoping for something to watch. Oh, look there’s “Braveheart,” so you watch a few minutes of the struggle Sir William Wallace depicted that some of our ancestors endured. I had grandfathers on both sides of those battles. Flip a few more channels and there’s “Dances with Wolves,” so you watch some of the cruelty some of our ancestors inflicted upon others. I had family on both sides of those fights too. A couple of more channels over is “Gettysburg” and there we see brother against brother fighting for their lives in the War Between the States. I had grandfathers on both sides in that war.
There are so many epic struggles in history upon which our peoples stood on one side or the other, sometimes taking up arms, sometimes just trying to survive as the world careened out of control around them.
In recent years, I have written stories about how my grandfathers stood face-to-face, sword in hand, fighting in hand-to-hand combat, thinking it’s just lucky they both had their children prior to that battle.
Family experiences help to shape us. Sometimes we choose not to pay attention or have no knowledge of them. They are still within us. Lately, I embarked on an investigation to see how many of the Encouragers that God placed into my life were actually related to me while neither of us knew it at the time. I have found over and over again that the spark of friendship that built that opportunity was probably planted when our long-ago grandparents fell in love and their hopes and dreams for us were passed along in our Spirits.
Does blood alone make one family — no, not always, in order to be family, there are other attributes that must be there. A sense of caring, love, fair play and mutual respect are a start. But as a basis the shared experiences of those that came before will always connect those who carry a bit of their ancestors within them.
It is amazing though how each generation struggles through the same issues: putting a roof over one’s head; clothes on one’s back, food on the table and paying the bills. Most of this is accomplished by one simple teaching — work hard and with God’s help you will succeed.
These are the basics in every generation’s experience, it’s what we bring to the table beyond these basics that help to give a family a sense of accomplishment.
I was raised in a family where kin folks cared about each other, they helped all they could, didn’t always agree but usually ironed out those differences especially following a gentile tongue lashing by the most senior member of the family reminding them that differences are usually petty compared to the big painting that reaches back through the years.
In this world where everything moves so fast, I encourage you to pass along the wisdom of the generations in every way you can find because we are the standard bearers for all those behind us but more importantly for those ahead of us.
The importance of one’s family connections is something that I believe we are losing in America.
With each generation there are fewer individuals who live close to their extended families, unlike the days when grandma and grandpa lived just in the next room or uncles, aunts and cousins were a short walk down the road.
Many Americans today do not really know the members of their extended family. We spend a few awkward moments together at funerals, family reunions, Christmas and Thanksgiving gatherings and then off we go back to our own lives.
As families build lives miles away from their home many grasp the anonymity of their new surroundings with fervor, often dreading when a distant family member might drop in, disrupting their lives.
Despite the fact that my parents chose to move away from their homes to build a life for themselves in Atlanta, I grew up in a home where our door was open to members of both my mother’s and father’s families. It was not unusual for there to be cousins stretched out on quilted pallets sleeping on the living room floor; uncles rummaging through the refrigerator for green dill pickles as a late night snack; aunts blanching red tomatoes from the garden in the kitchen; or distant kin moving in for an extended stay while they looked for a job or planned a new start.
Because of the time I spent with these people growing up, I feel a much closer connection to them; the shared experiences make chance meetings and gatherings less of a strain today.
It was not unusual for my Mom to get up and start cooking a batch of turnip greens, cornbread and some fried chicken, while cleaning the house from end to end. When asked why she was doing it, she would say “so and so” will be here directly. Sure enough, after a while they would knock at the door. My Mom has a second sense about that. With no forewarning she knew some relative was on their way.
Sundays were a big visiting day. It was not unusual for Uncle Harvey, Aunt Lois and all their kids to load up in the car and be knocking at our door before dinner. Sometimes Grandma Allie and Grandpa Jesse would come along for the ride.
Us cousins would spend the afternoon playing as the folks caught up on all the family news. We might ride over to the airport to watch the planes land or go downtown to sight see. We would eat dinner, and then whomever was visiting would load up in the car and head back up to the mountains of Georgia or Tennessee.
I remember one trip when Uncle Harvey and family came down to see Joe Don Baker in “Walking Tall.” Of course, us kids were not old enough to go to the drive-in and see it so we had a sleepover instead, while most of the adults took in the hit movie.
Just like their visits there, we also visited regularly. Despite the distance it was like we were one family experiencing life together rather than living separate lives and putting up with one another for a few hours at the holidays.
God has called many of those family members for an extended stay at his house. While they are absent here, the experiences still live within me, giving me a sense of the extended family even if there are fewer of them now on this side than there once was.
The stories they told of relatives I never knew made those people alive to me. Through those stories many of my characters come to life on the page in columns and in scripts.
As each holiday rolls by, take the time to experience more than just the ordinary. Help create an experience that will last for yourself and your children throughout the lifetime. It is the shared moments of life that will make the basis for what we know as family.
If we as a country do not work to strengthen our families individually, what will the future hold for the American family as a whole? I guess we will be a country of individuals seeking a group in which to belong. We can only hope those groups aren’t exclusively on social media.
When you think of western films even forty plus years after the passing of the legendary John Wayne, who comes to most people’s minds?
Who can ever forget his greater than life presence on the screen no matter what film was rolling through the projector like “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,” “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,” “The Sons of Katy Elder,” “True Grit,” “Rooster Cogburn,” and “The Shootist.”
