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The Last Leaf: A Childhood Memory of Raking and Jumping

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The sun’s rays offered a great warmth to my cheek as I began my walk along Frog Leg Creek. It had been many years since I eased my feet along the path I had run so swiftly as a boy. The water in the creek churned up a froth as it swirled over the rocks, aiming its strength southward.

A large brown leaf fell with a thump upon my head. Perhaps it wasn’t quite a thump—more like a quick poke. As I picked it up and examined its stem and structure, my mind glided across its smooth surface back to childhood. I was watching a young boy in a blue jacket, pumpkin-colored shirt, and blue britches, swinging a rake above his head. A voice rang through my head: “The leaves are already on the ground; you don’t have to knock more from the trees.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I returned to my task of making the largest pile of leaves in the history of our neighborhood. Beneath that oak tree—which must have seen Sherman pass on his way to burn Atlanta—the leaves seemed to gather in an endless volume that filled my afternoons as I worked to collect them.

The only real advantage of the adventure was the chance to take a running jump and land in the midst of the pile, of course sending the leaves flying through the air and scattering them across that section of the yard once again. It was worth it, though. The freedom of flight and the softness of the landing somehow made all the hours of raking and piling worthwhile. There was usually a small payment at the end from the neighbors who owned the big tree. I think I got ten dollars.

I forget how many bags the tree usually produced, but I remember once stretching enough bags across the yard to spell “Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas,” using one bag for each letter and still having that many left over.

Sadly, my desire to rake waned after my body weight no longer allowed a satisfactory soft landing in the pile. By then the falling leaves brought more dread than enthusiasm, although I never lost my admiration for that tree or for looking at the fall colors as they turned. When I moved into my latest home, it had no deciduous trees. All I have planted are evergreens, and if I keep it that way I will never miss raking another leaf. They are beautiful when they are someone else’s—or simply bringing color to the countryside.

I released the leaf I held in my hand and watched it fall, swinging back and forth as it drifted to the ground. As I walked away, I looked at the trees and thought how beautiful they are. I wished there was a big pile I could jump into, but I was glad to know it was not my job to rake them.

Read more of Randall’s writings in his books available at our Store.

The Hidden Side of Life: Trials We All Face

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I have come to the conclusion that everyone, no matter how blessed, faces trials.

Some are ordinary: how to pay a bill, find a job, or cope with everyday stress. Others are far heavier. I remember a week a few years back when I was praying for friends and loved ones dealing with heart bypass surgery, Parkinson’s disease, accident recovery, cancer, and stroke. Any of these can feel insurmountable, especially when a doctor uses the word “terminal.”

Thirty-nine years ago I sat with my dad after he received a terminal diagnosis. He chose a treatment that might give him five more years if it worked. Even while facing his own death, his thoughts centered on making sure his family knew how he felt and that they would be all right without him. I never fully accepted how immediate his condition was, and I missed chances to share my feelings with him. Maybe it was the awkwardness of youth or simply not knowing how to say what I felt.

His sudden death left me more open with others for a time, unwilling to leave things unsaid. Over the years, though, I’ve drifted back into the habit of keeping those thoughts inside.

Our home church began a ministry several years ago for people caught in addiction. Has there ever been something you wanted so badly that your body ached and your mind could focus on nothing else?

When most people hear “addiction,” they think of alcohol or drugs. The list is much longer, and the damage is often the same—to the person struggling and to everyone around them. I have yet to meet anyone who cannot be pulled into some activity or fascination that consumes time, money, and energy, sometimes at real cost to themselves or those closest to them.

You may think, “How can I be addicted? I’m a good person,” or “I’m a Christian.” Consider a few less obvious possibilities: exercise, computer use, food, gambling, sex, or limerence (an obsessive romantic attachment). Any of these can become addictive.

Addiction usually involves impaired control, preoccupation with a substance or behavior, continued use despite consequences, and denial. The drive for immediate relief often overrides concern for long-term effects. Stopping suddenly can bring anxiety, irritability, cravings, nausea, and other withdrawal symptoms.

In truth, most of us have addictive tendencies. Unchecked, those tendencies can become addictions. Is there something you feel you have to watch or attend, even when it crowds out other priorities? (I’ve wondered more than once whether following every football or baseball game counts.)

I have spent much of my life encouraging young people to stay away from drugs and alcohol, and I have lost friends and family to both. I chose not to use them myself, yet I know the potential exists in me, just as it does in other members of my extended family. One step in the wrong direction can open a door. I am also a creature of habit. At times I have wrestled with behaviors that felt close to obsessive-compulsive patterns. Having worked through those, I now try to stay alert so I don’t slip into unhealthy routines.

If your church or a local nonprofit offers a recovery program, support it with whatever gifts you have. If a friend needs someone to go with them to a meeting, don’t stay home out of fear that people will assume you have a problem. Just be there.

Addiction is potentially within each of us. Some forms are simply less visible or less stigmatized, but they still affect our lives and the people we love.

Read more of Randall’s writing through his books available in our Store.

When the Bucket Returns: Childhood Pranks

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I remember as a child, especially when the family gathered, there were always more children than you could shake a stick at.

When you put a bunch of boys together, they often got into mischief—usually by playing pranks on each other. Sometimes they would even gang up and pull one over on some of the girls in the group.

Sometimes that mischief involved a bucket. It could be filled with water, ice, dirt, worms, or anything else someone might not enjoy having poured over their head.

Of course, it was all in good fun, and the favor was soon returned in full measure when one least expected it.

Sometimes adult life brings similar moments, when it feels as though fate—or something else—puts you squarely in the crosshairs of a bucket filled with the unimaginable. It may not be as messy as those childhood pranks, but it can feel just as heavy when it lands on your head.

As children we knew the rules: get drenched, howl with laughter, and wait for the perfect moment to strike back. But these adult buckets don’t come with a return policy. Once they’re emptied over you, you’re left standing there wondering how to dry off when the water keeps coming from somewhere else.

For me, this past week felt exactly like that. I would wake up to a message or a call and feel the first cold spray hit. By mid-morning another drop would land, then another, until the whole week felt like standing under a faucet someone had forgotten to turn off. Even the good news from earlier in the month now felt strangely distant, like sunlight I could see but no longer feel on my skin.

After some wonderful, uplifting moments I had long chased and desired, each day that week brought news of another passing—first two musical friends, then a cousin and a coworker, then another musical friend, and finally a musical hero.

Each one chipped a little more paint from my surface, leaving my life a bit more exposed and my emotions raw to the touch.

When life turns on a dime and the hopes and dreams of what lies ahead are suddenly sidelined by an unexpected death, it’s sometimes hard to understand how one day everything can be on the right road and the next the path disappears into the fog and haze of grief.

Maybe the work isn’t to find the old road again, but to learn how to walk through fog without needing to see the whole path at once—trusting that the next step will eventually become visible, and that someone else might be walking it with us.

Find more of Randall’s writings in his books at the Store.

A Harley, Ice Cream Cones, and Lessons for a Lifetime

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One never knows from where your positive influences in life might come.

When I was an overweight teen on my first real job at the Dairy Queen, a man rode into my life on a black Harley Davidson to take a job as store manager. He would widen my perspective on the world.

Ed Cross fit all the stereotypes a young teen might associate with a biker in the 1970s: long hair, wearing black leather, and hanging out with other biker friends.

All I had seen of bikers in my life to that point were film depictions, which left some initial fears and concerns about what to expect. Ed changed all those early misconceptions for me. He was a hardworking, caring individual whose laughter and jokes filled the hours of our work environment with a positive spirit.

His strength—which carried an air of fear associated with it—kept a bunch of male and female teenagers, as well as adults, in line while keeping food going out the windows from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. daily.

Ed taught me business tools which I have used throughout my life—doing product inventories, placing warehouse orders, counting cash register tills, and making deposits. I watched and assisted him in fixing equipment of all kinds to help us keep operating.

I saw him work double shifts when others were not available. I watched him reach out to help young people among our staff who were going through a tough time in their lives and who felt they could not turn to anyone else.

Whenever my days at the Dairy Queen come to mind, it brings back memories of all the laughs, all the lessons learned, and the hours spent together making an honest living.

Without Ed, my early music career would never have flourished. Because of him and our store owner Joe Wyche, I seldom worked a Friday or Saturday, allowing me the opportunity to tour and appear around the country while keeping a steady income.

I think, at least I hope, Ed knew all the difference he made in the lives of us Dairy Queen kids. If there is someone who has made a difference in your life, I hope you will take the time to share with them the impact they had.

Read more of Randall’s writings in his books. Find them in the Store or on Amazon.

From Recess to Real Life: Childhood Friends Shaped My World

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I crowded into the MARTA bus headed toward downtown Atlanta. I grabbed a seat as the bus filled up. A Black woman in a gray dress and heels got on, and I noticed there was no available seat, so I rose and moved toward the back, giving her my seat. As I got situated near the rear door, I wrapped my arm around the bus rail and placed my feet appropriately to keep me steady as the bus stopped and started along the rest of the trip to Central City Park. As I stood there, I started looking at the man sitting near me and realized it was Mr. Olivares. He was heading to his job downtown. I had not seen him in years, and initially he did not recognize me.
I had grown tremendously since I used to run through his living room alongside his children who were near my age—Paul and Vivian.
I met Paul in about third grade after his family emigrated from South America. The family included at least two youths near my age and some older siblings as well. I don’t know what drew me to Paul initially.
Through most of my elementary school experience, all the students were white, despite going to school after integration and during a program referred to as M-to-M transfer, where the county would bus students to schools that were demographically different.
As best I recall, Paul was the first student from a different country or culture that I met—especially someone speaking a different language: Spanish.
We became fast friends and began playing together during recess at school. Soon, I started visiting his home and joining his family for dinner, and he would visit ours as well. I began learning enough Spanish to get by as I visited his home and spent time among his siblings.
I guess it was my parents’ open and caring attitude toward people—whom some Southern whites of that era may have viewed differently because of color, culture, or faith—that allowed me the freedom to reach out and not feel I was doing something out of the ordinary.
In fact, perhaps it was the early boundaries that my own parents had faced as they overcame the “hillbilly” stereotypes while migrating from Appalachia into the city and seeking acceptance in Atlanta society that helped them later form the attitudes that shaped me.
So the fact that Paul was from somewhere else never fazed me as a child; it just made our time together of greater interest to me.
At some point, I lost my friend Paul when his parents were able to move him from public school to private school.
I still remember the conversation when he asked me to see if my parents would consider moving me as well. We did discuss it, but my folks stuck with the public school route, so our diverging paths forced us to focus on new friendships. Sadly, I had no need to speak Spanish anymore until I reached my studies in high school, and by then, it was like starting over completely.
It would be a while before Dresden Elementary would see another student who was not white; the next family would be Chinese from Hong Kong. In my grade was Nin Chung Szeto, and once again, I found another friend. In this case, however, I didn’t learn Chinese, but in two years’ time, I certainly had an impact as I helped teach Nin Chung English. I am sure he was burdened by my Southern accent for years. Like Paul, his path also diverged as his family moved west. We kept in touch by letters for some time, but eventually the practice faded. Still, I knew that Nin Chung—by then, he had chosen the name John—was carving out his own future in America.
When the seat next to Mr. Olivares opened up, I sat down and reintroduced myself, explaining that I was on my way to classes at Georgia State University. He caught me up on Paul and Vivian. I asked him to pass my greetings to them, and Mr. Olivares and I would regularly exchange greetings as we both commuted. It would be years later, in a Winn-Dixie grocery line, when Paul and I would next meet. Now, both out of college and making our own lives, we were miles away from those young boys we had been when our friendship started. Though we said we would get together sometime, we were in different places and did not follow through.
While the paths that life had in store for Paul, John, and me were not ones that would keep us connected, for me those youthful experiences enriched my life and allowed me to continue expanding my opportunities to know more about the people I meet, whether from a world away or just down the street.
Find more stories from Randall’s youth experiences in his Encouragers Book Series www.RandallFranks.com/Store .