Cleaning out the goop

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I walked to the top of the ladder, climbed up on the roof, turned around and sat down looking down. I pulled another scoop of goop out of the gutter and placed it within the bucket I had hanging on the hook below me.

The long row of gutter ahead was scoop by scoop being cleaned out, and the bucket was filling up.

With every couple of scoops, I looked out upon the neighborhood, seeing it from a totally different vantage point. On one look up, I could see one neighbor cutting hedges with clippers while wearing a large triangle hat often seen in films of the far east. I watched a moment as she carefully sculpted the shape she desired. The care she placed in the task was evident.

I returned to my scooping, and soon my attention was grabbed as a lawn mower engine roared in another direction. Another neighbor in a T-shirt and a pair of overalls was riding his lawnmower, carefully creating diagonal lines, which shined in an amazing coordination from my view.

Far in the corner away from his work, his wife stood by the fence talking with a blonde lady in red exercise clothes who had stopped her walk.

I returned to my scooping as I inched foot by foot around the house until I spied two kids crossing the street. Across their shoulders were fishing poles, and in one of their hands was a string of fish they had pulled from the creek.

I returned to my scooping and soon I realized I had matched my rhythm of work to a beating pattern which was coming from down the street.   I looked closely to see what it was and I saw a group of kids were playing a game of basketball on a nearby driveway.

Once again, I returned to my scooping, and as I ended my task, I cleaned off the tools and disposed of the goop in the bucket in the trash can. As I prepared to shut the lid, a loud noise with no specific purpose except the deafening of those that could hear the sound of a bass that bounced from a car passed by.

I thought how the hour or so spent doing something productive allowed me to clear my mind of thoughts of everyday problems as I saw some of the best moments in my neighbors’ lives. Did they see them as the best? Probably not. But within those moments, I saw people, living side by side, in all facets of everyday life from pure sport, intense horticulture hobbies, passing the time of day, to the victory of achieving one’s goals. And like the departure of the raucous bass line as the vehicle cleared the neighborhood and the goop was tightly shut away in the waste bin, all was well in our world. And that is really what is important, how we are with one another in our neighborhood and our town. That is where we can make things better for all of us.

 

 

The freedom of nothing left to lose

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It seems so much of our life is spent working to prove something to someone else.
In our early years, we aspire to gain the approval of our parents or key mentors that wish to see us succeed in education, sports, music or whatever dream they hold for us or share with us.
Sometimes, it’s the approval of our peers in these same pursuits, or other less beneficial objectives of youthful exuberance. There are those who succeed here and those who fail.
Often these successes or failures catapult our emotional make up forward, setting some of the undertones for our life. I know in my case, the failures left an underlying, “I’m going to show you” settled deep in my craw. I drew upon that hurt for many years, and it pushed me to overachieve in many ways.
No matter the outcome of youth, we step forward hoping to once again prove to the world that we can be somebody – a success in work, a success in picking the right person to marry, a success in raising children, a success in whatever is next on the long list that we seek others’ approval to prop up our esteem, our importance, and our life.
Often, we find ourselves in a cycle of seeking others’ approval for the rest of our life.
In a conversation I was having with a friend the other day, I said something that I had not even thought about. As I look back upon the path I have traveled, I am blessed to have had so many distinctive mentors to whom I have tried to prove my value in some aspect of my professional or personal endeavors.
As I began thinking, except in the form of being a creator of art in word, note and other form seeking the approval of those of you who buy my work and help me sustain the existence I enjoy, I thought I had no one left to prove anything to. Many of my key mentors who held those roles in my life have taken their final curtain calls.
As I relayed the story of a recent acting experience, I heard the words come out of my mouth, that I really wanted someone to acknowledge I could do what I was aspiring to do.  I realized that I had not yet left behind that desire of proving something to someone. It was still buried inside me with one more youthful goal that had not been achieved in full but could still be accomplished if I tried hard enough.
There it is driving me forward. After years of feeling I had nothing left to prove, which sometimes is not a bad place to be, once again, my blood is pumping with a desire, a hope, a goal that energizes my step.
So, what is better, being to the point of nothing left to prove to anyone or having someone who inspires you to do more? I guess it depends on your own get up and go. I know one lady around 90 working on her doctorate. She has nothing to prove except to please her own soul.
If you are generally a self-starter, you probably move along OK, but every now and again, somebody may need to pour a little gasoline in your carburetor to get a spark and provide that forward momentum. If you need that in your life, I pray you have someone who provides that opportunity in love. Because in reality there are only two of us in this race to the finish line — us and the good Lord — who gives us a new chance every day to prove we are somebody serving, sharing and loving others for Him.
 

Carefree days of youth

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I opened the door and the thickly painted white screen door slammed behind me. I seldom noticed the sound it made as I bounded down the three steps from our front stoop. Once down on the sidewalk, I was hidden from the street behind the huge green box hedges fronted by azaleas.

Once I was big enough to roam outside on my own, this is how most summer days began. Once I hit the sidewalk, I was making my way around to the utility room to pull out my green bike to open up the doors of freedom. Sometimes, my mom would be standing there by the washing machine loading in clothes she would later take out and hang on the line for drying.

As I stepped up on the pedals and rested myself on the banana seat, from behind me, I would hear, “Be back by lunch. We are going to town for ‘looking and feeling’ this afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied as I gained speed going down the driveway and turned to the left headed for adventure.

You might ask what is ‘looking and feeling?’ That is what ladies from our area called shopping when they were aiming to get out and not buy but enjoy the air conditioning in the stores in the hot summer months.

We did a lot of that which could seem to be a terminal situation when you had something else on your mind to do as a kid.

But for the morning, I was off to create some adventure, so, my first stop would be banging on a couple of doors to raise some other kids to play. Before you could say Hank Aaron, there would be about five or six of us on our bikes riding down suicide hill.

Soon we would move on to the woods where we had built a series of forts fully stocked with pinecones.

We would pick sides, and we were battling the other team to ensure the survival of our clan over the other. Sometimes we were Yankees and Confederates, sometimes Cowboys and Indians, sometimes Germans and Americans, British and Colonists, it really depended upon what movie we recently saw or what history lesson was near at hand.

Either way, and no matter who we were representing, the battles took form until we ran out of ammunition and the other team overran our stronghold. We would then restock the forts for the next battle day. Then we would be off for maybe wading in the creek and then back home in time for lunch.

Usually, a bologna sandwich with a slice of tomato from the garden, a wedge of cucumber, some barbeque Charlie’s Chips and a big glass of cherry Kool-Aid. Then I would go wash off, change from my play clothes and be ready to climb into the passenger side of our Chevy Malibu to head to the stores.

Often, I would be moved to the back seat if we picked up another mom and kids. The children were sent to the back seat, and we made our way to Woolworths, J.C. Penney, Sears or even Rich’s. Of course, in those days there were no special youth seats. We didn’t even use the seat belts. We sat still though, or we would feel the long arm of the law from the ladies in the front seat.

We were expected to behave no matter how many hours the excursion was. Especially when we were in public — in the stores. If we ever forgot ourselves (which I did on a couple of occasions and turned the women’s and men’s department into a playground and the underneath areas of the hanging clothes and good places with hide and seek with whichever other kids were on the outing), we soon felt the sting of our mistakes upon our posteriors, and it would come sooner than later if we disturbed other folks.

As I hear kids screaming at their parents and see them acting out in public today, I fondly remember the tough lessons my parents gave me. I remember those days of imagination, and the hours of fun, and I wish that children today could have those experiences, rather than a childhood attached to screens of various types and parents who look the other way when they act out.

Reaching up from the depths

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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

If dust collects, find a broom

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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.

Could I borrow a cup of chiggers?

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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.
Read more

A Shell, the Porch Swing and a Screen Door

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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.

Alone in a crowd

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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

Is the richness of debate a dying art?

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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.

Kicking the can down the road

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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.