Passing days can be more

/in /by

Often times in life we fold over the calendar page only to see a date that marks a memory, an anniversary, a birthday, which we may or may not wish to experience again.

We mark our lives by milestones – graduations, weddings, funerals, and all that happens in between.

I recently read a wonderful article about the life of a cousin who passed at 103. She lived an amazing life touching many and impacting the history of my maternal ancestral home. Amazingly, I had reached out to her just a few weeks back but her hearing did not allow me to speak to her by phone, so I was going to write a letter that did not get completed in time.

For me, there are dates which pop out on the calendar for some reason. My grandma Kitty’s birthday – Jan. 5. My parents birth and death days. Though there are many fond Christmas memories from childhood, once I hit adulthood, Christmases became less pleasant, and the anniversaries are not a favorite but like everyone else, I manage often filling the void with special routines.

For years, I kept my life cycles by a calendar of annual musical performances returning to towns and festivals with music instruments in hand to bring a smile and hopefully move a crowd of enthusiastic music lovers.

While the annual cycles have fell by the wayside, I still fondly think of those times as the dates float by on the folding calendar page.

Is there a reason that we should dread the turning calendar page?

No, I don’t think so. Despite the passage of time and the inevitable wrinkles and graying hair that accumulates the more pages you toss away.

The special days should be ceased and cherished. The happy ones should be made happier with each passing opportunity. Create a new special memory attached to the day. If the memory is sad, find a way to create some happiness around it. With each passing happy moment, the accumulation of those over time, might just place the sadness deeper into the past.

It is up to us to decide whether we will be a slave to the past, or create opportunities that make tomorrow better for us.

Generations have come and gone upon whose shoulders we stand. Many knew little happiness, many knew much happiness. No matter their lot, it is safe to say they likely wanted more for their offspring and those that came beyond.

We owe it to them to make the best of the time we are afforded, not to dwell on the bad and the sad but work to improve what is around us with all our efforts.

Make a smile today, even if it simply while staring in the mirror. Your effort will be returned, even if its just by your reflection!

A quarter saved

/in /by

I placed the quarter in the hand of Uncle Sam and hit its trigger and the coin dropped down into the open bag below clicking to the bottom of the bank. It was a fun to save in a similar way my grandparent’s generation had.

While it taught me the tendency to save throughout my life, now as I look back, I wonder if the colorful design of Uncle Sam and his satchel was subliminal to train me to also put my money in the hands of Uncle Sam.

Don’t get me wrong; I have always given him his share. Needless to say, I didn’t have to smile like I did when I put it in Uncle Sam’s hand as a child.

Mechanical banks always were a fascination to me as a child and they were fun to watch as they collected their holdings.

My folks instilled in me a strong sense of saving. I had several small banks as a child until the day my mother went with me to open my own bank account. I saved for many of my big childhood items: the bicycle I wanted – an English racer; a push mower to start a lawnmower business; and many other things through the years.

Putting money back to pay for future bills, replace a vehicle, retirement, emergencies, and a myriad of other needs depending on the source of the revenue.

Those who came out of The Great Depression definitely had a different perspective about how to make the most of everything. Things just didn’t go in the trash if there was any chance something might be repurposed. Paper towels and napkins were torn in two. Aluminum foil and when salvageable plastic wrap was washed for reuse. Coffee grounds and tea bags were used twice. Clothes got patches. Sock holes were repaired.

Many had learned most of the lessons of their parents and could garden, can and store foods, fix vehicles, tools, appliances and most anything. They had learned the skills of hunting, fishing and trapping and how to process the meat those endeavors provided.

For those who are blessed to have some of these skills passed to them, you will have a leg up as we all may walk an unfamiliar path in the coming months.

I remember the stories they shared about the bank runs and the thousands of closures that followed in the 1930s, but the Great Depression followed.

As I write this, we saw our first modern day large bank run which resulted in closure. Although after the news of the closure, it appears a government plan may be in place to salvage things. But even if they do, no matter what they say, that means someone else has to pay for it. Two other banks closed in the same week. Hopefully, that will be the end of the process.

I have always been called an optimist. In case my optimism does not pan out, brush up on your skills, live local, strengthen friendships and prepare.

Randall Franks spotlighted in Cashbox Magazine 80th Anniversary Edition

/in /by

Cashbox AirPlay Direct Spotlight

Randall Franks is featured in the 80th Anniversary edition of Cashbox Magazine in a special AirPlay Direct spotlight.

Find it on Page 102 next to a great feature on Shirley Caesar. This edition is packed with features on music stars from Chubby Checker to Willie Nelson.

Also check out a nice spotlight on my friend Amy Scruggs.

Click on the magazine at www.CashboxMagazine.org to see the pdf.
Radio find his music at www.AirPlayDirect.com/RandallFranks

A privy and some plums

/in /by

The gentle falling of snowflakes takes me back to the days when cold weather would bring a tough decision at the old family homestead.

Being cold in the winter was a common experience, since the only heat came from a fire in the main room. Grandma would always be the one up early to get the fire going before anyone else was out from under their warm down covers.
Sometimes in the middle of the night, the call of nature would come upon me. Unlike our house in town, where the bathroom was only about 15-feet down the hall, I was faced with a decision to make a 20-yard dash to the outhouse or simply utilize the chamber pot.
Most would use the chamber pot. But for some reason as a kid, even when the temperature dipped into the teens, I would push myself to put on my old black leather work boots and my brown quilted coat with the hood and make the trek up to the old white pine outhouse.
It wasn’t a very fancy building, much like those depicted in so many arts and crafts designs. The lumber from which it was made was hewn by hand and weathered by years of use. A simple wood latch kept critters from wandering in there with you. It wasn’t always successful, however.
I remember one time my little cousin, Wilbur, was making use of the facilities. Wilbur wasn’t very tall for his age. With his small frame I wonder how he managed not to fall in, I had trouble myself when I was young. After a few minutes in there, he ran out pulling up his britches, claiming there was a creature attacking him from underneath like the monster from the black lagoon. After investigation, we discovered that it was a two-legged dominicker from the hen house which apparently had decided to peck more than the ground.
In the summer, without air-conditioning, evenings were spent sitting on the front porch to catch a breeze to ease the heat which built in the house throughout the day. A trip to the old privy would find many types of crawly and flying critters, although they seldom bothered me except for an occasional sting. I seem to remember that happening one time. I then spent the rest of the day with a Bruton Snuff poultice attached to whatever part of my body the critter stung.
While I can reminisce fondly about trips to that quaint little building, as someone who was raised in the city, I must say that with the exception of the great solitude of the outhouse amidst God’s great outdoors, I did much prefer modern porcelain versions.
However, when the plums come in, I often wish I could take a trip back to the outhouse. About 20-feet beyond it was a red plum tree that often required my attention. I just loved making a trip out there to eat my fill.
Of course, my mother and grandma would warn me to stay out of the plums. “If you eat too many, you will get sick,” they would say, and they were right.
If I spent an hour up that plum tree, I would spend most of the next day about 20 feet away.
Thankfully, I never got a visit from the dominicker from beneath.
From Randall Franks’s “A Mountain Pearl: Appalachian Reminiscing and Recipes.”

Refilling the well with love

/in /by

Over the past few weeks, I have said goodbye to many friends and family, and I share this story in honor of each of them and those who gave tirelessly to care for each of them as they prepared for their final steps. Perhaps it will give us all something to carry throughout the coming year – to always remember that we are here to love one another.

As Pearl looked into the eyes of her father, Grandpa Bill looked back with a stare that was almost empty.

There was nothing more scary, more disheartening than looking into those deep blue eyes that had given so much throughout life, such caring, such love and on occasion a stern glance that made you know you were on very thin ice.

But now as he looked upon you there were moments that he did not know who you were.

Pearl longed for a chance once again to hear his gentle voice speak her name for no other reason except to be sure that he knew her.

Fear overcame her worrying that such a moment might not come again or perhaps his thoughts might land in a place of anger and frustration making him want to strike out at her and those who love him so much.

The family had seen the cycle again and again as the older generation slowly yielded its control to the next, albeit sometimes kicking and screaming along the way.

But that is only appropriate not to go quietly into that good night.

In the valley below the Gravelly Spur Mountain there is no such thing as a nursing home or assisted living. You found your assistance at home among your family and friends.

No matter your age or disability there was always some series of chores you could perform to keep a daily routine until you body rebelled and no longer allowed you to do them.

Then if your hands remained active, a chore that required only slight movement might be shared, peeling potatoes, breaking green beans, sewing on buttons.

But Grandpa Bill had reached the point that those days were behind him and he was giving comfort only in the brief moments of clarity as they came and went within him.

Pearl wondered what she might do to make the situation better, alas there was little she could do except be there leaning back in the woven seat oak chair holding his hand as it lay upon the blue and white cotton patchwork quilt. She tried to make each day as close to what he wanted as possible.

There was no doubt of the love shared between the father and daughter and yet that did not ease the fearful moments when the ravages of time seemed to wipe it clean like the swipe of an eraser across a school blackboard removing the chalk so no one could see it.

But she found her solace waiting for that next moment when the writing once again appeared on Grandpa Bill’s class slate perhaps not in all its detail but enough to hold on to. Enough to sustain until there was no more.

It makes one wonder where love goes when the board is wiped clean.

Perhaps that is the purpose of family caring for family. The well of love pours out throughout the lives of those contributing filling the hearts of those around them. When the well begins to dry up does that mean that the love is gone? Of course not, the love still remains within all those who have shared in it throughout that person’s life.

As the level of one’s well begins to diminish it is simply the job of all of those who have drank from that well to now bring some of that love back to that person.

Just because they may not be able to drink it in fully does not make the gift any less valued.

From the book “A Mountain Pearl: Appalachian Reminiscing and Recipes“

His steel could really sing

/in , /by

Barney Miller on the set of Lawless in 2011. (Randall Franks Media)

Barney Miller performs on the stage of the Ringgold Depot in Georgia in 2007.

From my earliest memory of country music, the sound and mix of fiddle
and steel working together to augment the vocalist has electrified my
interest in what some call classic country.
From the 1940s until Nov. 2, a talented Alabama steel and resonator
guitar man named Barney Miller has shared his talents alongside some
of the greats in Country and Western music, TV and film. He
eventually became a Georgian, where many of his musical recognitions
were achieved.
It was the early cowboy sidekicks Dub Taylor and Al “Fuzzy” St. John that took him from walking rows of crops on the farm to standing in
the footlights of stages across America. They put him in the ornate western costumes and helped him learn the inner workings of Hollywood stardom and Country & Western music touring.
Though his life and career carried him to be field engineer, construction company operator, deep-sea fishing charter boat captain, music teacher, and heating and air technician, just to name a few, his music carried him to contribute to the legacies of Grand Ole Opry stars such as Billy Walker and Ramblin’ Tommy Scott, TV personalities such as Claude Casey, and to appear in numerous films and TV shows himself. A major auto accident sidelined his musical efforts for a
time in the height of his demand as a musician, but he overcame the injuries to regain his ability to play the instrument he loved.
I was honored to be one of those artists who benefitted from his experience, his talents and his amazing storytelling. I knew him since my youth when he supported my young Peachtree Pickers. He loved to share a story about my mom and dad and one of our early performances for Buckner’s Restaurant where we both performed.
Later as my career moved to TV and country music notoriety, he became part of my musical legacy. I can’t put a finger on when it happened exactly, but one day, there was Barney and after that, he was always there, ready to go perform – county fairs, music festivals, and concerts, or a film or TV appearance whatever the opportunity. You can catch him performing from the set of Lawless with my Cornhuskers String Band on Randall Franks TV on YouTube. When I started our Share
America Foundation (www.shareamericafoundation.org) encouraging youth in Appalachian music, he became one of our
strongest musical contributors, helping us send numerous youth to college.
Barney left his slide and steel behind Nov. 2 for a brighter stage alongside many of the artists he knew in life, he was 87, though to me, I never thought of him as anything but eternally young, because of his uplifting spirit and amazing outlook on life. I can still hear his voice, see his smile and feel his steel meshing with my fiddle as we gave what is now considered a classic country feel to one of my songs – I’d just look over from center stage and say “Here’s Barney
Miller on the steel guitar” and the audience would come alive as he wowed them and me.

Could I borrow a cup of chiggers?

/in /by

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.

I had forgotten what a hair raising experience it is to find oneself as the battle ground upon which these critters wage war.

They are like an army quietly waiting for a battle front to move into their theater of operations and once they do the chiggers slowly advance surmounting the shoes, the socks making their way as if they were advancing towards the German front leaving behind little command posts as they go.

The memory of childhood scrubbings, dousing the shoes in sulfur powder, and covering those command posts with calamine lotion are all etched in my memory.

Thankfully there was just one lone scout that caught me in Nashville, there was one time when I sat at my newspaper desk a few years ago, I noticed that I seemed to have itches popping up in places I didn’t even know I had. Later that evening, the plain truth became apparent.

In the fulfillment of my patriotic journalistic duties, I had crossed over into the sovereign nation of Chiggerland. They were so put out by my invasion, they sent out their best commandos to repel my attack and wouldn’t you know it, I left before those critters found their way back home.

In any event, by suppertime they had built new outposts from head to toe.

In trying to thwart their assault, one simple remedy came to mind — fight fire with fire. No, that wasn’t it. To scratch or not to scratch, that is the question. It wasn’t that either but I think the affirmative won.

I got up and rushed into the bathroom as the stroke of memory from childhood hit me, the way to handle this was to find a bottle of fingernail polish and paint the white flag of surrender on each fortification so they knew I was giving in.

The only negative thing is the one remaining bottle I found left amongst my late mother’s things was red. I just could not quite bring myself to painting myself all over with red fingernail polish. So, I decided, first thing in the morning, I would get what everyone needs in their fight against dem critters, clear fingernail polish and some benedryl.

What dem critters do not really know is when you paint those little flags of surrender you are really attacking dem with your own little secret weapon and slowly they give up.

So in any event, I am happy to report that on almost all fronts, the chiggers lost the battle, although I made every effort to steer clear of any opportunities for them to bring in reinforcements.

Just remember a scratch in time saves nine, no, that’s not it. One good scratch deserves another, that’s not it either. Well there must be some lesson learned here. If I figure it out, I will let you know for right now I had better run I think that one little critter from Nashville is acting up again. Now where did I put that furniture polish, no that’s not it.