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Milestones and Markers

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How we determine if we are successful in life and careers is often marked by milestones and markers that indicate where we are and how well we’ve done our jobs. We strive for them throughout our lives. I often pull out a suitcase that contains bits and pieces from my late father’s life. We filled it after he passed away at 54, unable to part with the certificates of achievement, the small pins marking his years of service, and the awards he received. Medals and insignia from his time in the Army are also there. I remember one time when my father came home floating on air after receiving recognition for saving his employer an immense amount of money.

Beyond the love I still carry for my dad, these mementos from his life mean little in the grand scheme of things. I’ve probably opened that case five times since he died 38 years ago, taking the pieces out, reading, remembering, and repacking.

In contrast to my father, who spent his life working for companies and the government, my life has been spent either behind or in front of a film or television camera, or driving from town to town, stage to stage, as I spoke or performed my music and comedy. My milestones and markers are much different from my father’s. They are achievements generally granted by organizations that focus on the crafts in which I perform my gifts. Awards come in all shapes and sizes and at all levels these days, generally selected through nominations and voting processes by industry professionals or sometimes by fans. Chart songs come through radio stations and whichever authority compiles the data.

As entertainers and actors, we do our work, and at times, we’re blessed when it rises into the view of our peers, fans, and organizations—enough so that our names are set alongside those considered the very best in the business. Those nominations sometimes even grant us the unusual distinction of becoming award winners.

I’m blessed that there have been seasons when I’ve seen the blessings of nominations and awards. God has allowed 2025 to be another one of those seasons, with a mixture of 16 nominations or honors in various areas of my creative endeavors from a variety of organizations.

Other milestones are markers of passing time—anniversaries. The last 12 months have been a series of markers for me, many starting with the number four. The longest is 45 years since I hosted my first ticketed concert with my youth bluegrass band—The Peachtree Pickers. This, in many ways, was the beginning of my professional career, aside from my earliest TV appearance at age six. Time also allows many folks to look upon your list of achievements that come with time and decide you need to be honored with career-capping distinctions, such as induction into halls of fame. My career has managed to accumulate five of those thus far, but I have yet to put a cap on my career. In fact, I’m doing everything I can to ramp up my opportunities to allow me to create and perform for the next two decades.

I don’t know who might sift through my awards and nominations 38 years after God calls me home, but it’s my intention to give them plenty to look through. I certainly hope I leave behind several trunks’ worth.

What achievements are you leaving behind? Whether in corporate offices, on stages, or elsewhere, we all chase these markers—but what truly endures? While the things described above are important to me, I’ll refer to something one of my performance mentors taught me about what we leave behind. My bluegrass mentor Doodle Thrower used to say, as he left the stage after the final show of a festival: “When they dig my grave, it’ll have to be several feet deeper than normal to house all the wonderful memories of good friends and the great moments shared with those in the audience.” I’m hopeful that for me the same will be true, but instead the extra depth will be needed for those who have stood in front of my stages or watched me on a screen.

Treasures of Forgotten Lives

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The musty scent of old books, vinyl records, and mothballed clothes greets you at an estate sale, where the remnants of someone’s life spill across makeshift tables, counters, and shelves. Clothes, tools, knickknacks, furniture, jewelry, even leftover cleaning products and unused hardware—each item whispers a story. I’ve spent many pleasant afternoons rummaging through these sales, piecing together the lives of strangers through the things they left behind.

In the garage or basement, you often find the “men’s domain”—a workshop brimming with neatly stowed tools, screws, nails, and bolts. I’ve snagged bargains on hardware I might use someday, like a box of screws for a future project or a half-used can of paint. These items, carefully organized, hint at hobbies, repairs, or dreams of building something new. The living room, by contrast, is often the woman’s realm, adorned with porcelain figurines, Christmas villages, crystal, and delicate artwork. The kitchen overflows with dishes, pots, pans, and utensils—testaments to meals shared, holidays celebrated, and daily routines now stilled. I love visiting on the final day, when prices plummet and overlooked treasures, like a quirky teapot or a vintage record, become fire-sale finds.

Yet the saddest discoveries are the photo albums, brimming with smiles from birthdays, weddings, graduations, and vacations. These moments, once cherished enough to frame or tuck into sleeves, now sit abandoned, their owners likely without children or grandchildren to claim them. I’ve flipped through these albums, marveling at the joy captured in faded Polaroids or black-and-white prints—families gathered around Christmas trees, couples dancing at receptions, kids blowing out birthday candles. Once, I found an album with a familiar face, perhaps a distant acquaintance or neighbor from years past. I couldn’t leave it behind; it felt like rescuing a piece of their story. Now it rests in my home, where those faces are known, if only to me.

Sadder still are boxes of framed photos or old slides, relics of a time when families gathered to watch slide shows, sharing stories of vacations or funny mishaps. These visual memories, so carefully preserved, meant everything to someone. When I see them discarded, I can’t help but feel their song will no longer be sung, their names and faces lost to future generations. For years, I found comfort seeing similar photos on the walls of Cracker Barrel restaurants across the country. Strangers’ faces, frozen in time, gazed out at diners, their images preserved even if their names were forgotten. Now, with corporate remodels stripping away these tributes, another layer of sadness settles in, as if the past is being erased once more.

In today’s digital age, our memories face a new threat. Photos and videos, stored on old computers, hard drives, or forgotten cloud accounts, may vanish faster than dusty albums. Unlike physical photos, which can be stumbled upon at a sale, digital files are often inaccessible without the right device or password. I’ve wondered about my own collection—decades of snapshots, concert tickets, and mementos from a life immersed in music. I’ve earmarked some for music-related archives or museums, but even then, they’ll likely sit in a box or filing cabinet, deep in storage, rarely seen.

Estate sales teach us that our treasures are fleeting. The albums and keepsakes we cherish may end up unrecognized by our children or grandchildren, who may not know the faces or stories behind them. Only a handful of memories make it to their piles, the rest discarded or sold to strangers. As I browse these sales, I’m reminded to plan ahead.

The colors of things yet to be seen

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As I drove through the mountains last fall looking at bright yellows, deep reds and variety of greens and browns, I felt a warmness coming over me beckoning back to my childhood riding in the back seat of my parents blue 1964 Chevy Malibu as we made our way through the mountains heading to who knows where.

The adventure of travel was something that we all enjoyed, trying to find something we had not seen, something that would be an experience we could share throughout our memories.
I don’t know what it was that made those trips through the hills and hollers in full color that drew me into a sense of security while yet being awed by the change of the seasons enveloping us.
As we drove I would watch the leaves whisk around in our wake as the car sped through the countryside, often as we would unexpectedly swoop over a hill I would feel my stomach jump like being on a roller coaster.
If we travelled into the night and the temperature began to drop, I was allowed to curl up in the floorboard near the heater vent and I would drift off to sleep until my father scooped me up in his arms and took me into our destination for a night’s rest. Today, I know that is something children will never experience and probably for safety reasons for the best.
We would roll through small town after small town sometimes stopping for a visit, sometimes not, but eventually our journey would take us to somewhere we had never been before.
In a way, I guess in the modern sense this was the pioneering blood deep within our spirits that inspired the need to see something new. Unlike a generation before when travel meant horses, wagons or even train trips, if you could afford it, we were blessed with affordable gasoline and the advantage and freedom of travel by automobile as far as the roads could take us.
Unlike our forbearers, we weren’t the first to see a thing unseen by previous frontiersman, but still there was a sense of the unknown especially for me as a child.
I guess that has never left me, even as I pour over faded photos of those trips, sights that are now just a memory, I still feel that exhilaration, I see the sights through the window of that Malibu.
Even today with the higher cost of gas and travel, I still feel an excitement when I slip behind the wheel and head off to some place I have never been before. The same is true for spring and summer excursions across the country. Although after years of travel as an entertainer, I have to travel much farther away to see those unknowns but I still seek the sights.
As you travel, I hope you and your family and friends, find new sights, make new memories, and are blessed with the beauty of America byways!

 

 

Future or past, which has more?

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My brother asked me, ‘Are you living in the past?’ I often do find myself lingering within my memories. As time passes, I think it is easy to place more emphasis on what has gone by in your life than what is ahead.
That is probably especially so for someone who spends a great deal of time writing. You depend on your memories of experiences, people, places to bring your writing to life, add color, excitement and depth.
You think about the summer days running through a spraying sprinkler with friends with slippery green grass beneath you bare feet. A call from the porch brings us running and dripping as my folks cut up an ice cold watermelon on the back porch handing a piece to each of the kids. As we smiled while chewing it to the deep green rind the red juice ran down our faces and hands leaving us so sticky but oh so satisfied.
Standing outside the closed green apartment door, I wait for my first date or someone to answer it. I’m afraid that I might do something that would embarrass her or myself in some way as the evening progressed. And finally when the evening was a success, after finding that I didn’t make a fool of myself. I realized there was some hope she might actually like me.
Looking out from behind the deep burgundy curtains to see one of the first audiences for which I would perform at my elementary school, feeling my heart beat faster and faster; hearing the parents and students talk among themselves as the curtain came close to the opening.
The smell of diesel fills the air. I’m standing outside the tour bus anxiously waiting to catch a glimpse or maybe even shake the hand of an icon. He’s about to enter the Cathedral Caverns to record an album. I had not yet met the man who would play such a huge role in my life. His name was Bill Monroe.
Looking across a wooded area where we were filming a TV show, I was waiting to see the arrival of television icon Carroll O’Connor. I could have never imagined the impact the steps he took into my life that day could change the rest of my life.
Holding the hands of my father and mother as they stepped through to the other side, I remember them leaving their shared memories, deepest cares, greatest concerns, highest hopes and wonderful dreams with me.
A few years back, I wrote a book series called Encouragers that has kept me embedded in the past for about three years. It provided me with some wonderful times folding myself into the past. It can be a great inspiration to look back and it can also bring great sorrow if one dwells too much on what is gone rather than what is to be.
With the conclusion of the writing stage of of my three-book Encouragers series: Finding the Light; Walking with the Masters; A Guiding Hand; I was hopeful and excited to look towards the future to create new opportunities, new adventures and new memories to write about.
Each day that dawns gives us the chance to write another chapter in our life or the life of another we may not even have met yet. Will you use this day to create a great adventure and make a difference? I am going to do my best to achieve that same goal, I hope you do too!

Walking into our memories

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Our lives intertwine with friends and family. We choose the friends, sometimes by geographical vicinity, sometimes by group participation, and sometimes by career.

Sometimes having friends is by trial and error. Relationships can offer an uplifting experience or sometimes make a toxic mix within our lives. Thus the trial and error.

Family relationships add the same opportunities for a great lifetime experience or a mixture of misery over time.

There is an old saying “You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.”

One of the greatest commonalities we share with family though is we often love and share in the lives of people who have invested or simply been present in our lives. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, parents or other relatives who in some way made a positive impact.

Once those folks are called to their heavenly home, our family members are usually the only ones with which we can generally share memories of those gone loved ones.

Although memories of many of my loved ones run through my thoughts and dreams, seldom may I sit down and recall a specific time, place or memory with someone unless its a family member.

I recently was able to do that and it was such an uplifting experience to smile or laugh over those missed. To share in the places, people and experiences who shaped our lives, for me it left me life in a better place. I know however there are those out there for whom such would carry them in the opposite direction. The key to a successful and happy life beyond sustaining a growing relationship with Jesus Christ, is to building a life without toxic relationships.

Allow people into your life whether friend or family based on whether their presence adds to your existence. I don’t mean financially, I mean emotionally. There are a lot of folks who bring a lot of excess baggage along with them.

Now, choosing this path does not mean you will not find loneliness in your existence. Many times we give up on some of the fun, to avoid being in the midst of some misery.

We choose what makes up our lives. If you want a happier life, gravitate towards positive people who add to your days. If you want happier memories to walk within, share them with those who can make them bring a smile.

Through the eyes of a neighbor

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One of the greatest men of God of our time is undisputedly Billy Graham. The reach of his ministry has touched the four corners of the earth.

I remember watching a message he delivered in Louisville, Ky. some years ago. He shared his realization that he was finally old, when not too long ago he thought of himself as young. He went on to say that this point in life was “definitely not the golden years.” But he feels it is a good time to look back on life and come closer to God.

If we are blessed with long life, aging is something we all will face either in our own lives or that of our family members.

My first experiences with the effects of aging came from a childhood neighbor, Bessie Yarbray.

Bessie was a regal lady who found strength in self-reliance. She was born at the turn of the last century in a farmhouse less than five miles from our subdivision. She married and raised a family of (I think) five children.

When I met her as a toddler, she and her new husband Homer moved in across the street to begin their new life together near the age of 70.

She stood around five feet, and if a strong wind blew through, it seemed she could catch hold and fly along.

She and Homer stood fast against the tide of concerns shared by both of their families over their late marriage.

While my memories of Homer are sketchy at best, I am told we had a fun relationship as he and Bessie treated me like a grandchild. My strongest memories fade-in after Homer was called home.

Bessie once again found herself starting over in a place that she and Homer hoped to share.

Bessie never learned to drive. She eventually sold Homer’s car and relied on the kindness of friends and distant kin to get her to the store, doctor and church. She would always find ways to repay their kindness so she would not be beholding to them.

She was a constant presence in the lives of all my friends throughout my childhood.

Some days the smell of fresh-baked oatmeal cookies would permeate the street in front of her house. This would always be an excuse to stop in to check on her and, of course, have a cookie or two or three.

She enjoyed watching her afternoon soaps and volunteering at Sardis United Methodist Church. She became a regular fixture among my mother’s circle of friends as she helped with school events and attended graduations and scouting award banquets.

Since we lived closer than any of her children, many of the first decisions concerning her care often would fall to my mother.

In the 70’s, doctor’s told her she had colon cancer, which required surgery to remove or she would die. While in the hospital, she changed her mind, and when the nurses came by to give her a sedative before surgery she pretended to take it. She then left the hospital never to return. It was more than a decade before she would again see a doctor. She would live another 20 years, and to my knowledge, any doctor never again mentioned cancer.

Well into her 80’s and 90’s, Bessie cared for her yard by trimming hedges; raking and mowing every week it was needed.

“If I don’t mow my yard you know something is wrong,” she would say.

She planted a garden each year, which provided all her favorite, fresh vegetables.

With the bounty of her garden, she created dishes you would not believe. Thinking of her homemade soup makes my mouth water. The soup would not be complete without a slice of her piping-hot cornbread.

With the exception of an occasional change of a light bulb or flagging down the mailman or a neighbor to have them pull the cord on her push mower, Bessie didn’t ask for much help.

Whenever sickness loomed, she always stressed to us: “No matter what, I do not want to leave my house.”

As we became busy with illnesses in our own family, other neighbors kindly stepped in to help Bessie whenever needed.

A broken hip which came while working in her yard in her mid-90’s would finally begin a short period when she had to look to others for her day-to-day needs. She even regained her strength once again and stood on her own feet.

One of the last calls I received from her came at a time when she had missed taking her medicine properly and asked me if I saw the house going down the road? I stopped and looked to see if perhaps there was a house going down the road. There was not. We followed up to make sure that she was taking her medication properly.

About a year or so later, Bessie passed away.

She never moved away from her home except for a few weeks following her broken hip. She was blessed with a strong, self-reliance that made her keep pushing forward no matter what.

She reached the finish line her way, and with her faith in God still straight and strong.

The seeds of wisdom spit forth

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This past week I gathered with kin beside the stream that flows by my late grandparent’s home in the mountains of Tennessee. The area is now a state park, in the stream one of our cousins placed a watermelon to chill its bright red innards. We shared so much fun that day, as we cleaned up, we discovered the melon ice cold, and it had missed out on all the fun. As I sat on the back porch today looking out watching the grass grow, this image carried me in my mind’s eye sitting similarly on my grandmother’s porch. It was a summer where I spent a lot of time with my Grandma Kitty and Aunt Norma Jean. Flossie, the milk cow, was meandering through the yard headed for a shade tree where she laid down and tried to create a bit of a breeze using her tail to move an almost non-existent breeze.
Grandma was doing a much better job in her rocker with her funeral home fan and her right arm. In fact she managed to move enough that I picked up a bit of the breeze as mother and I went back and forth on the porch swing. Norma Jean leaned back in a ladder back chair against the wall abnormally still for her.
It was one of those days once referred to as the dog days of summer. I never quite understood that except I guess that the similarities with dogs it brought to us humans. We all sat around with our tongues hanging out of our mouths panting or at least so it seemed to me as a kid.
After a while I just couldn’t stand being still so I headed down to the branch to dangle my feet in the water. You know that works a lot better if you take off your shoes and socks. I never said I was real bright back then, or maybe it was just the heat.
Before I knew what had happened I looked around and everyone from the porch had joined me and you know there were smiles on their faces. They actually remembered to take their shoes off.
It was like the branch filled our bodies with a sense of hope. Hope that the heat would pass, and we would once again feel like ourselves again.
It wasn’t long though until I realized it wasn’t me that had drawn the group to the branch, especially when I noticed mother had spread out a red and white tablecloth on the bank beneath a tree. On it was a large knife and a cutting board and a saltshaker but there was nothing else.
What I did not know was that Grandma had a surprise for me. She sent me down into the deepest spot in the branch and told me to reach in for a surprise.
There was a deep green watermelon from the garden that was now cold as can be from the water running over it for most of the day.
I lifted it out and brought it up and set it on the cutting board. My shoes squished with each step.
We all now gathered around as mother cut the watermelon in pieces and we each began eating our fill.
Red fruit with a touch of salt and all those black seeds. How do you be polite with all those black seeds?
I followed Grandma’s lead and realized she was throwing the conventions of proper etiquette out the window. Rather than disposing of them quietly in a napkin, she suggested that we have a contest and see how far we all could reach spitting a seed.
We all took turns, seeing who could get across the branch. It is amazing how far the ladies could spit. They made it to the other side almost every time. Occasionally one fell short and down the branch it floated.
With each round, we found more laughter, each of us eventually won, and by the time we finished the melon, we had almost forgotten how hot it was when we started.
Our heat-induced melancholy was lost to the mischief of a melon and all its little seeds.
An added bonus, next year, the watermelons were so close to the branch, they didn’t even have to be carried and put in, they just rolled in themselves.

The seeds of wisdom spit forth

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As I sat on the back porch watching the grass die, I could not help but find myself in my mind’s eye sitting similarly on my grandmother’s porch. It was a summer where I spent a lot of time with my Grandma Kitty and Aunt Norma Jean. Flossie, the milk cow, was meandering through the yard headed for a shade tree where she laid down and tried to create a bit of a breeze using her tail to move an almost non-existent breeze.

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Faces from the past and present

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Have you ever sat down and looked through your photo albums or boxes of photos and not known whose face you were looking upon?

Just the other day I was looking at images from my kindergarten.

You would think I would be able to name every one of those kids; I mean it was just yesterday that we were sliding down the stair banisters at the Presbyterian Church, fighting in the church playground and arguing over who got to sit with Julie Badger, my kindergarten sweetheart.

Other than Julie, the rest of those kids’ names have just faded away. As I looked at photos of birthday party after birthday party, I saw so many classmates I could not even begin to remember.

You would think I could easily remember when, while blindfolded, I accidentally pinned the tale on the wrong donkey.

I never liked Jamie Winston much anyway. He was only invited because of diplomacy. If I left him out, then I wouldn’t get invited to his house. There would have been a crushing domino effect which could have set my second-grade social life on its ear.

I often sit and peruse photo albums that feature faces of people who I do not know. The photo had or has some significance to my late mother and father, or grandparents or another relative, so it found its way into the family collection.

In my room hangs the portrait of a great, great, great grandfather that meant much to my grandmother.

I will say it was not a favorite of my mother’s, as she sees this stern man whose eyes almost follow you as you enter the room. It reminds her of the haunted house paintings that scared Don Knotts and Jim Nabors to death on “The Andy Griffith Show.”

It took me years of coaxing to finally get grandma to part with it and let me be its caretaker. The same is true of so many other images I have gathered through the years.

I recently forwarded a photo from the collection of my grandmother Allie Bunch Franks to a distant cousin via e-mail.

I was hoping it may be one of her ancestors. All the information I had was that it was my grandmother’s cousin Dave Bunch, who had an affinity for building different creations inside bottles. Three were featured in the postcard. Grandma even had one that sat upon the mantle.

I always remember marveling at how he could have gotten his creation inside that bottle when I peered in it as a child. I thought he must have had very small fingers to reach up in there and do that.

Beside him in the photo were two girls, one younger than the other, and unfortunately paint had covered the older girl’s face years ago.

From my cousin’s review, she made the educated guess that due to clothing styles, it was likely her great uncle rather than her great grandfather who shares the same name.

I have recently been going through many of our family photos and posted numerous unnamed ones to Facebook as well as hundreds from my father’s time in Germany sharing them in hopes someone will recognize and appreciate them, thankfully several were. It is amazing how we can easily forget the names of those kids who were at our birthday parties or the cousin we seldom see. It is so important to take the time to mark your photos in pencil not pen as to the details of who, what, when, and where.

Through the 60s and 70s, many film developers were kind enough to put the date of development on the photo, which helps. I think many of those new developing machines may include that info in the code it leaves on the back of the image.

As I look at the fading images, it is amazing to me how older images from the 30s, 40s and 50s endure literally unchanged while those of the 60s, 70s, 80s and even 90s are already fading into obscurity.

It is hard to imagine birthdays and Christmases simply gone because of poor film or film development, but that is much like our memories, they will likely fade with time as well.

I encourage those of you who have moved into the computer era, to scan your photos from every era into a computer database. Generally, you can include information about the photo right in the file in many programs. Make several CDs of the completed photo files and disperse them to your children, grandchildren. Put a copy in your safety deposit box.

Many even take the time to create little photo documentaries of the family history and their lives. Sit down and share these with your young grandchildren at the computer.

The main reason to disperse the copies is to make sure that many people have them in their collections in case of a natural disaster or fire. Then you might have a better chance of rebuilding your family photos.

When you consider all the time and money we spend on photos, you would think we would take the time to document the events that surround them. Now that we all create hundreds of digital images as part of daily life on the devices we carry, we still are letting them go unidentified unless posted in social media. I do wonder what will survive from our era for archaeologists to catalog a thousand years from now. Families have largely given up great paintings of their leading members that once lined great halls. Photos whether printed or digital will likely not survive as we know them.

Whenever I go into Cracker Barrel, I look up at the large portraits hanging on the walls and wonder if only someone had taken the time to write down a little about that person and put it with the portrait if they would now be staring out at thousands of Cracker Barrel customers or on the wall of a relative who knew they had an important life.

Like a newspaper documents the story of a community through its coverage, a well-kept photo collection documents the story of your family’s life. Will your teenage children or grandchildren care you took the time to do this? Probably not until they have children of their own, but who knows, the effort may prove beneficial to each of us as we look back later and get the benefit of knowing who is staring back at us.

I am still wondering who that blonde kid with the flattop, big ears, with my birthday cake on his nose is, oh wait, that’s me.

Every encounter leaves a memory

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God has blessed us with so many things in this world.
For a columnist like myself, who spends so much time writing stories based upon the experiences and memories of things and people I have known, the memory is of tremendous importance.
I imagine that is true of most everyone.

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