Posts

I thought I had lost my marbles

/in /by

I was going through some boxes in the attic the other day and came across something that spurred some fond memories.

It was an old cotton tobacco bag with a tie string. These were designed to keep the tobacco fresh and protected but instead inside of it was my collection of marbles that were an amazing part of my youth.

A marble is a small, spherical object often made from glass, clay, steel, plastic, or agate. Typically those are around 13 mm (1⁄2 in) in diameter. These colorful toys can be used for various games, such as marble runs or races, or created as a form of art.

I don’t know if children still play marbles but for me it was an amazing past time.

A couple of friends would draw a circle on the ground in the dirt, drop marbles into the circle and then we would take turns shooting to knock the marbles out of the circle. Of course, the winner got to keep the other player’s marbles. So, our collection could grow or reduce depending upon our skill with our favorite shooter and the skill and strength of our thumb flick.

I am amazed that this childhood collection actually survived all these years. I was not the best player in the world, so I must have become tired with playing and stored away my marbles. I sort of figured I had lost my marbles years ago. Most people would probably say something similarly.

I don’t know if that little boy could have imagined who the adult man would become.

He certainly could not have imagined the crooks and turns of love and life in general. I have many friends who have remained throughout my life, others who fell by the wayside. I have fell in love several times but never successfully. The process never took as it was. That was definitely not how young Randall envisioned his future. But God had another plan.

Professional opportunities have taken me around the U.S., Canada and Mexico entertaining folks from all types of stages and placed me of TV and in films for audiences around the world. Those are also things little Randall could never have seen coming. But I will say, I was blessed by each and every moment thus far and look forward to anything He allows ahead.

Playing games was a vital part of every childhood day. Those kept us physically active, mentally engaged and strategically learning and growing. As adults, we need the same type of activities to make each day better. We all work hard to make a living; so a little time each day doing something for recreation stimulating our mind and/or our body is productive for us all.

I fondly miss those days when I looked forward to the sun coming up and I hit the door running to fill the day with all types of adventures and games. Finding people to play with and creating game to play was all that was on my mind. I guess as adults, we see our hobbies in this way – fishing, hunting, sports, racing, motorcycling, bicycling and others. So, in a way we have days from time to time we rush out of the house looking forward to doing these things with our friends and/or families.

As I stared into the beautiful colors of those marbles rolling them around in my hand, I could see myself on my knees shooting with ease at the marbles in front of me within the circle. I could hear the clicking sounds they made as they hit. I could feel my bag heavier after winning.

Marbles may be bygone for me, and I am sure there are some who would say I lost them long ago, but I am sure glad I ran across them at least for a bit before returning them to their box once again for safe keeping until I find them again.

Where are we headed?

/in /by

I sat in the back of the blue 1964 Chevy Malibu with my legs dangling of the blue seats with my feet moving to the beat of the Buck Owens coming across the AM radio.

My father Floyd was driving and my mother Pearl in the passenger seat. The back seat was my domain, the only thing back there was my pillow and a few of my favorite toys, a couple of books. There was a small box with plastic army men, and a few of my Matchbox cars. Unlike today, I could move around as I wanted on the seat or into the floorboard. If I wanted to lay down and take a nap, I could. That was probably how my folks liked me best on those long trips. Because I am sure I wore them out with my impatience asking “Where are we headed?”

It’s not like they decided to go somewhere else while we were driving, but I just wanted up to date information. Of course, back then we didn’t have those new fangled things that talk to us telling us where to turn. We had those big map books, or fold out maps on every state that we went through.

Of course, by the time I came along, the interstate system was solidly in place around the country, so much of the time was spent on those types of roads between places.

And prior to the internet and widespread franchising, every little community we stopped in had its own feel and identity – restaurants, stores, and events. Of course, my mom always had a trunk full of homemade food on ice and we stopped along our paths to eat.

Whenever we hit the road for a vacation, we always had mysteries and new things to find and experience. Even if it seemed odd or hokey, there was great things we were able to see among those too.

I loved those trips with my folks. We always managed to talk to each other. My folks would wake me in case they thought I might miss something, probably not always wise, because it probably broke the silence they were enjoying. But they saw trips as an educational opportunity for me and even for them.

As I grew and my interest in history became primary, those types of destinations were added along the way. I was able to share my excitement and learning with about the topics and locations with them. They could also do the same with me.

I wouldn’t trade those road trips, short or long, for anything. I had my folks sometimes for endless hours right at my fingertips together. We cherished those moments.

When I was very small, especially during winter travel, I loved to crawl up into the floorboard at my mother’s feet and sleep on those trips.

I know travel is now different for families today than they were for us. But I encourage you to find those opportunities to make such adventures come alive for your family. And you know what, you don’t have to spend a mint to make it a memory.

May I ride in your little red wagon

/in /by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A refuge under the covers

/in /by

When I was a little boy, my brother and I shared a room with two maple single beds, a maple night stand, and a maple dresser with six drawers – three on each side with a large mirror spanning its width. The beds had pineapple finials on their posts. My older brother left me behind in the room early in my life after he graduated high school headed off to the Navy. There was 15 years between us. The room was lonely once he was gone. He often had friends over that allowed me to be the annoying little brother! I reveled in all the mischief I was able to cause as a toddler.

That room became like a cavern to me. In the dark, there were definitely monsters under both beds, in the closet and walking down the hallway leading to the room. I could hear every creak and pop. Any little thing would have the handmade quilt pulled so high over my head, it was doubtful I would ever dig myself back out again.

When the fears of nightmares were too hard to bear, my parent’s bed was a refuge, and off I would run up the hall, open the door, and jump in between them in their cedar bed. After they calmed me, I would soon settle in warm and snug between them.

As I grew, my bed became also a sick bed, as my tenuous health caused me to take extended stays there. The maple night stand became a regular place for bottles of medicine, damp wash rags would remove the vanish over time as they would hang there between my fevers.

In my childhood, the room had none of those things children have today. There was only one TV in the house in the living room. Only what could fill my imagination with the toys from my closet were what I had to keep me occupied in the healthy times. I also had a candy red tricycle which allowed me some freedom in the back yard and, of course, like many I had my own cowboy outfit, with a cap pistol, so I could chase after the bad guys.

That room was my world as a kid. I knew every flaw, every loose board, and where I could hide from company if they came. Despite being alone, I filled it with lots of imagination.

As the years passed, I remained there until I was in my teens and the den was converted into a more adult bedroom for me and the childhood bedroom became a guest room.

Years later, we decided to sell the suite and it moved along to a family that had a set of twin girls who would then call it their own. I hoped they found as many happy hours there as I did and experienced a few more joint memories as siblings. The bedroom suite was second hand to my brother and I, so I imagine it has moved on a time or two more since then.

While furniture does not carry memories with it, the pieces certainly can leave a memory legacy within each of us. Today, I still sleep in that cedar bed I once jumped in as a toddler. A few feet away are the dresser drawers which served as my bed as an infant. I imagine, if it is the Lord’s will these items will be with me the rest of my journey and then will pass along in the family.

The smell of flowers upon the heart

/in /by

The sweet smell of flowers emanated on the breeze as I ran through the backyard trail. For me, as a small boy, it seemed immense as the rhododendrons towered above me.
It was like an enchanted garden that you could imagine catching the Irish little people scurry out of your sight and the fairies to be dancing in the air about you.
It was a backyard domain of vibrant red, purple, pink, white, orange and yellow colors in every shade created by long serving forestry employee Baxter Reed who created the sights and smells for his loving wife Hazel.
Baxter and Hazel Reed were my childhood neighbors. They were of my grandparents’ generation and themselves had no children. But in their own way, they had many grandchildren – those who made up our little neighborhood.
As we played upon the streets or across the yards, they were there to smile and cheer us along. There were often cups of lemonade nearby and occasionally a cookie to boost our energy. Hazel’s love emanated through many of us.
I was able to come to know Baxter some as I assisted him with a few chores around the yard before his Parkinson’s advanced to where he was less active.
The couple was originally from Oregon and Baxter had retired from the forestry service. I am not sure what had brought them to Atlanta and our neighborhood. I guess I never asked, or if it was said, it was lost in the annals of my youthful inquisitiveness.
But from him I learned that in order to create a beautiful environment, outside of nature’s normal beauty, it took dedication and care. That is what he gave to the space he created for Hazel and him to enjoy.
When I was big enough, I took on mowing yards to earn money. The one yard that I really did not want to mow was the Reeds. Mr. Reed had cultivated the only Zoysia front yard in the neighborhood. It was thick and difficult to push the mower through. But in time, I was asked and could not refuse Hazel’s request.
One of Hazel’s pastimes was painting flowers on china, and she was very good at this hobby. I was blessed as a boy to get a few of her creations and have cherished them through the years. I recently passed those along for someone else to continue in that enjoyment.
In life, often we are not provided what other might see as the ideal situation. We may not have family or close friends with which to share our day-to-day. There may be no children who will carry on our legacy. Our health may not be the best it can be. We may face problems of our own making or thrust upon us by others.
No matter what is in the hand we are dealt in the game of life, it is our job to play it. To make the very best of the situation and along the way to strive to make our world a better place.
The Christmas and New Year’s holiday season is a time for many of loneliness. In some cases, people are outgoing and can fill the time with friends or activities that mask this until the season is passed. But others are mired in a stillness that prevents them from seeking the support of others.
You have a chance to make the lives of those around you better every day of the year. This is a lesson I learned from Hazel and from Baxter, you do your best to uplift, encourage and persevere no matter your circumstances and while doing that you make your life, your days, and your circle of engagement a happier and more loving place to be.
Create a memory that lasts far beyond you. Thank you, Hazel and Baxter, gone from us now for decades, but still in the memory and in the heart of one of those little neighborhood boys.

Decorations upon the heart

/in /by

I crawled up the ladder into the attic and pulled the string illuminating the surroundings.

Only a small area above the attic pull door was floored, and it was covered in cardboard boxes, as were the rafters, except for a space to move around the door.

I knew where I was going. It was my job as a boy to bring down the Christmas decorations which were all stored near the heat exhaust fan in the hall ceiling.

Generally, there were about six boxes including lights, Christmas ornaments, a faux fireplace, our artificial tree, and the exterior lights.

The first week in December was always a time that I looked forward to, because over a couple of days all these items would go up.

We would put the Bing Crosby or Elvis Presley records on the player and start working. Bill Monroe’s “Christmas Time’s A Comin’” or Jimmy Martin’s Christmas album would always be in the mix too.

Our tree went up in front of the living room windows, so the curtains could be pulled and any drivers by could see its lights. We chose the artificial tree beginning the year that I was diagnosed allergic to the trees. Despite losing the smell of the fresh tree and me eventually helping sell them with my Boy Scout troop. I still enjoyed putting the tree together. That was my job. Then mother would guide me placing the ornaments and icicles. The round ornaments included a mixture of red, green, silver and gold colors. There was a sparse number of off shaped smaller ones used in the upper areas of the tree. Most of these ornaments, my folks accumulated in the 1950s and 60s. On the top of the tree, my dad, when I was small enough would lift me up and we would place an angel with a light.

On one wall, near the front door, we would put together the faux fireplace with the electric lights behind the logs, and upon it would go our stockings and the Christmas cards that would come in.

Each window in the front of the house featured an electric candle. While every table in the house was swapped to seasonal doilies, candles, and decor.

On the exterior, that was dad’s domain with my help. All the bushes along the front of the house would be covered with lights, as was the trellis by our door. On the trellis near the door, we placed a two-foot lighted face of Santa. Plugging in one plug would light up the outside.

Once complete, the look and sounds for me meant Christmas was coming. While nobody’s life is all roses, these Christmas traditions helped me as a boy to have a blessed memory to grow upon each year.

Adulthood for me, unfortunately, didn’t bring the pleasant Christmases that were there in childhood. Instead after a certain point of not successfully finding that, I realized my way to create new traditions was by helping others have an amazing Christmas by helping meet the needs of those less fortunate.

Seeing the smiles on children’s faces when they receive a special unexpected gift. Filling a fridge and cabinets with food when a family doesn’t have money for that purpose. These were traditions that I also saw my parents quietly do when I was a child.

Those actions weren’t to make my Christmas better then. But today as I think fondly upon the decorations of old, it was the quiet service to others that I saw my parents do, that’s what really sunk into my memory and resurfaced as what Christmas is really all about.

For this Christmas, continue your family traditions, but add a new one for your young ones to see. That is, if you don’t already, why not help folks in need and let your children take part, maybe those actions will stay within their hearts for years to come.

A Shell, the Porch Swing and a Screen Door

/in /by

 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.

Kicking the can down the road

/in /by

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.

The bottom of the pile

/in /by

It is hard to walk away when you are at the bottom of the pile.

I remember fondly the springs and summers. Hours of play after completing my chores around the house. Of course, as I got older, I took on odd jobs like mowing neighbor’s yards to earn a little money.

In my neighborhood, we had a great group of children. We all would gather to play and race our bikes down suicide hill.

I remember one accident that sent me flying through the handlebars and sliding down the pavement for 20 feet or more. That still hurts just thinking about it. I had sores all over me from that adventure.

There were no cell phones — so the kids were kept on what I call time leashes. When we left the house, we were expected to come back by a certain time, usually mealtime.

Of course, if any of us got into mischief, the news traveled faster than us and the punishment was waiting for us when we got home. In my case, a few choice words from Mom followed by “You just wait ‘til your father gets home.”

Those waits coupled with the sound of my dad pulling his belt out of his pants were always worse than the whipping themselves.

One thing about it, my father never punished me undeservingly, and while I can’t remember a single whipping, I sure learned the life lessons that accompanied them.

My friends and I had about a two to three-mile radius in which we played that encompassed, fields, woods, several neighborhoods and some stores. We had a Colonial Grocery Store, a Krystal, a gas station, dry cleaners and a Gulf Service Station within our travel patterns.

We would get in our share of disagreements with each other. That would lead usually to some hurt feelings and some rolling around on the ground ‘til someone would say “Uncle.” We always seemed to come through it. There really were no children who caused trouble in my age bracket. A few older ones sometimes got into mischief, but we always managed to keep out of trouble.

Do not get me wrong, there were bullies. We were just blessed not to have them on our street, at least for very long. I remember when I was about seven there were two brothers who took great pleasure in picking fights with me. At least, it seemed that way at the time.

A boy my age named Chris Sands moved in. His parents had just divorced, and at that time, it was not as usual, as it is now. I’ll never forget one meeting with those brothers that had me at the bottom of a wrestling match that I just could not win. Chris was the new guy in the neighborhood and saw that I was being unfairly targeted for this fight and stepped in to pull the other boys off me. From that moment on, he was my friend — that is until he later moved away, and I lost track of him.

While time has erased many of the memories of the time we spent together hanging out as kids, that one action by the new boy on the block sticks in my mind. He saw something that was not right, and he did something about it. Not knowing the social lay of the land and the dynamics of the neighborhood hierarchy, he stuck his neck out for me. That is bravery.

Now I’m not advocating fighting as a way to resolve issues for children or adults. I was taught that it takes much more courage to walk away than to actually fight. But when they jump on you, there are just a few hurdles you have to get over before you can walk away.

I learned a valuable lesson from Chris that day. I have always tried to stick up for others, but sadly, especially when I started to serve in local politics, I found there were few willing to stick up for you as the bullies come out to tear you down, especially during an election.

Folks often do not like to stick their neck out to help other people, but when someone does, it makes our community a better place. Even during an election, it is better to walk away and not engage in the lowering of the standards of decency often practiced by other candidates and their backers.

We are truly blessed with people who work every day to help those who face many kinds of battles.

Flour, a broom and a lesson on being needed

/in /by

As I look down at the flour on the floor and the straw of the broom as it meets the floor at the edge of heap, I swiftly move it through the white powder. In the motion, my mind sweeps over my memories and I find myself standing beside the table in my boyhood home.

My Grandma Kitty is standing at the end of the broom sweeping flour that I had managed to spill as we were preparing biscuits and getting ready to bake a batch of cookies.

Read more