Rolling Stones

    The moment I saw you, I loved you. You came from love that lived in your mother and I. I was there from the beginning. You were so small, so frail and beautiful. You gave me instant joy. And instant fear. I was responsible for a living human person. You looked to me to feed, clothe, and house you. That was just the basics. It was stil pretty daunting, since I was barely into my second decade of living, myself. I was a grown man, technically, but still so very much a child also. I was still learning how to do some pretty basic stuff. I was a greenhorn on the trail of life. My work ethic, sense of responsibility, and general opinions on everything had barely begun to form. Now I have a human to raise. That’s true fear.

    I messed up a lot. When I was working too much, I felt like I should be home more. When I was home for very long, I felt guilty for either not working enough to provide for you, or that I wasn’t raising you right. I always felt like whatever I did, it wasn’t enough. I wanted you to have everything in life you needed, and most of what you wanted. It seemed there were always times when I couldn’t afford it or didn’t have enough free time for it. There was always an “it” that I couldn’t provide. My mind tied itself up in knots over those “it’s”. I was always forcing you to lower your bar and “settle” for something less. Something I could afford. The off-brand shoes, the generic cereals, or the “Mountain Lightening” sodas were a regular part of your life. More often than not, you were forced to “settle”.

    It wasn’t for lack of trying. I did shift work in factories most of my life. I just had a high school education and had to “settle” for the best jobs I could get my hands on. Long hours were the only path to more income, and I did that for a very long time. There were many weeks that went by, in which you barely even got to see me, much less play with me. I wasn’t trying to get rich, just to get enough to get by on. Sometimes it happened. Sometimes it did not.

    I tried to spend time with you. Play with you. Teach you things. Sometimes it was just playing “
cowboy bronco busting” in the living room floor, with you riding my back. I was definitely younger back then. On some rare moments, we went camping, or fishing. I tried to read to you at bedtime. Since I’d always been an avid reader, that was my favorite thing to do with you. It was also the cheapest way to take you on adventures too far away, magical realms. You seemed to enjoy that, too. I know I did. I especially loved making up all the character voices along the way, and listening to you laugh.

    I tried to teach you the important things, too. Responsibility. Work ethic. Love your neighbor. Care for your pets and show respect for your elders. Be honest. Be nice. They’re all important, but life can be hard to teach, in the practical world. The theoretical always runs into the “rubber meets the rode” scenario and makes all of those things harder to implement. I think you learned pretty well, in spite of my inexperience and ineptitude. You turned out to be a pretty great human being anyway.

    It took me decades to find out that my own dad was just a guy doing his best with what he had in front of him. I look back at my own childhood and am so amazed at how much he did with what he started out with. He had less education that I did, worked for less money a lot of the time, and still kept his kids in the dark as to how hard it was to raise a family. He was a strong man. He protected us. He put our needs first and probably put his own on the back burner most all of the time. He played ball with us and came to our games when we played organized sports. He took us camping, hunting and fishing. He tried his best to teach us right from wrong. He was a good dad. Even if he was just an ordinary guy doing his best. Just like me.

    For all of the times I fell short; for all of the clothes I made you wear; for all of the times I wasn’t there, but wanted to be and for all of the mistakes I made along the way, I am so very sorry. I wish I could’ve done more. Done better. Given you more. You deserved the moon and stars and more. If I could’ve given you all of those things with just the love in my heart for you, you would’ve had them all. I wanted you to have them, even when I made you “settle”.

    To Timothy and Cody: you are both doing fantastic jobs at being dads. You’re better than you think, and much better than I’d hoped to be at your ages. Keep up the good work. I couldn’t be prouder. To all of you: Christopher, Candice, Micheal, Timothy and Cody, know this: I love you all more than myself. I’ve watched you grow into adults of the highest caliber. I’d like you, even if I didn’t know you, and if I were just now getting to know you, I’d still love you. You all turned out to be exceptional human beings. I had a hand in some of that, but you took the ball and ran with it. Now I enjoy watching on the sidelines as you run your own races in life. Don’t be too hard on yourselves if you fall sometimes. Everyone does it at times. It’ll be okay. If you need someone to talk to afterwards, I’m here. Who knows? I probably fell like that once, myself. Give me a holler. I’ll tell you all about it.

    Happy Father’s Day to all of you ordinary guys out there. Just know that it’s all worth it.

    God bless y’all.

     She sits at the end of her couch, feet pulled up under her. She watches the Game Show network, Doctor Pimple Popper, Cops and Little House on the Prairie. Her little tea cup Yorkie, Sampson, is curled up either next to her, or nestled in her lap or on her neck at the top of the couch. She does her household chores herself, even though she has to pace herself nowadays. Her energy level is low, but she gives it all she has. Laundry, dishes, fixing supper for her and her grandson (he lives with her) are still done with pride and failing strength. She’s been doing them all of her life, and it’s hard for her to admit when she needs help with the work. Yes, she’s a proud woman, my momma.

    I’ll be fifty-nine in August. She still introduces me as “her baby’. I used to cringe at that when I was younger. I beam with joy when she says it now. I’m the youngest of her four children. I know they’re all “her babies”, but I’m the last born. I get to be the last one to be babied by momma, so I get to keep the title. My baby, Tim, gets the same treatment. It makes up for being the last one to the party, ya know?

    It took me a lot of years to appreciate my mom. I had four children of my own before I realized just how much work went into this parenting thing. It’s the hardest job anyone can do. There’s no vacation, no PTO, and no holidays. The pay is non-existent, the hours literally never end, and you always get the blame for messing the kid up, even though the training program is all hands-on with no instruction manual or rules book. If you do your job correctly, they leave you high and dry for someone else. If you do it wrong, they usually do that, too. Somehow, though, it’s all worth it.

    My momma was the first woman I ever loved. She loved me before we even met. She’s always been unconditional with that love. Even when I was unlovable, wronged her, and my actions and words would have made anyone else abandon and detest me, she still loved me. She’s always been there for me. Many times, I didn’t deserve it. She’s always told me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it. She’s been my advisor, mentor and friend for my entire life. I’ve not always followed her advice, but I’ve grown to appreciate it. I’ve grown to know that she’s usually right.

    I had to work the weekend of Mother’s Day. I barely had time to find Mom a card and get her some last-minute Wally-World flowers and stick them in a used vase. She acted like they were a bouquet of rare quality and said, as she does, “you didn’t have to get me anything. You’re busy, and it’s not a big deal. It’s just another day”. Well, I hate to disagree with my momma, but she’s wrong. There’s a National Day of (fill in the blank) for just about everything in our world today. Just about everyone gets a day. A lot of them are made up by various companies to get you to buy flowers or cards. Heck, I think that’s exactly how Mother’s Day started. But if there’s one category of people who deserve to have a National Day of Recognition, it’s Mothers. Maybe they even deserve the whole month, just as so many people refer to their “Birth Month Celebration” nowadays, like it was some kinda extended Hanukkah where we should bring them gifts and commemorate them for the entire month. As much as I abhor that idea for birthdays, I’m pretty sure Mom deserves it. For that matter, moms really rate celebrating them every day of the year. I mean, think about it. When did your mom stop celebrating you? Mine hasn’t stopped yet, and I’m not that great. Yup, I think my Mom deserves flowers, candy, gifts and cards every single day of the year. She’s that awesome. I just wish my bank account would allow that kinda treatment for my momma. Sadly, it does not. She has to settle for a daily phone call, the occasional visit, and some sad little flowers in a used vase once a year. Just know this, Mom-you are worth so much more in my heart and in my life than what I can express in gifts, or on paper. I’m sorry you don’t have much energy after over eight decades of life, but I’m so much better off as a person for being one of the people you spent that energy on. Thank you. I Love You, Momma.

Signed

Your Baby

   

     She sits at the end of her couch, feet pulled up under her. She watches the Game Show network, Doctor Pimple Popper, Cops and Little House on the Prairie. Her little tea cup Yorkie, Sampson, is curled up either next to her, or nestled in her lap or on her neck at the top of the couch. She does her household chores herself, even though she has to pace herself nowadays. Her energy level is low, but she gives it all she has. Laundry, dishes, fixing supper for her and her grandson (he lives with her) are still done with pride and failing strength. She’s been doing them all of her life, and it’s hard for her to admit when she needs help with the work. Yes, she’s a proud woman, my momma.

    I’ll be fifty-nine in August. She still introduces me as “her baby’. I used to cringe at that when I was younger. I beam with joy when she says it now. I’m the youngest of her four children. I know they’re all “her babies”, but I’m the last born. I get to be the last one to be babied by momma, so I get to keep the title. My baby, Tim, gets the same treatment. It makes up for being the last one to the party, ya know?

    It took me a lot of years to appreciate my mom. I had four children of my own before I realized just how much work went into this parenting thing. It’s the hardest job anyone can do. There’s no vacation, no PTO, and no holidays. The pay is non-existent, the hours literally never end, and you always get the blame for messing the kid up, even though the training program is all hands-on with no instruction manual or rules book. If you do your job correctly, they leave you high and dry for someone else. If you do it wrong, they usually do that, too. Somehow, though, it’s all worth it.

    My momma was the first woman I ever loved. She loved me before we even met. She’s always been unconditional with that love. Even when I was unlovable, wronged her, and my actions and words would have made anyone else abandon and detest me, she still loved me. She’s always been there for me. Many times, I didn’t deserve it. She’s always told me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it. She’s been my advisor, mentor and friend for my entire life. I’ve not always followed her advice, but I’ve grown to appreciate it. I’ve grown to know that she’s usually right.

    I had to work the weekend of Mother’s Day. I barely had time to find Mom a card and get her some last-minute Wally-World flowers and stick them in a used vase. She acted like they were a bouquet of rare quality and said, as she does, “you didn’t have to get me anything. You’re busy, and it’s not a big deal. It’s just another day”. Well, I hate to disagree with my momma, but she’s wrong. There’s a National Day of (fill in the blank) for just about everything in our world today. Just about everyone gets a day. A lot of them are made up by various companies to get you to buy flowers or cards. Heck, I think that’s exactly how Mother’s Day started. But if there’s one category of people who deserve to have a National Day of Recognition, it’s Mothers. Maybe they even deserve the whole month, just as so many people refer to their “Birth Month Celebration” nowadays, like it was some kinda extended Hanukkah where we should bring them gifts and commemorate them for the entire month. As much as I abhor that idea for birthdays, I’m pretty sure Mom deserves it. For that matter, moms really rate celebrating them every day of the year. I mean, think about it. When did your mom stop celebrating you? Mine hasn’t stopped yet, and I’m not that great. Yup, I think my Mom deserves flowers, candy, gifts and cards every single day of the year. She’s that awesome. I just wish my bank account would allow that kinda treatment for my momma. Sadly, it does not. She has to settle for a daily phone call, the occasional visit, and some sad little flowers in a used vase once a year. Just know this, Mom-you are worth so much more in my heart and in my life than what I can express in gifts, or on paper. I’m sorry you don’t have much energy after over eight decades of life, but I’m so much better off as a person for being one of the people you spent that energy on. Thank you. I Love You, Momma.

Signed

Your Baby

    I’m a proud American. I’m American by birth, but Southern by the Grace of God. I love the South. I believe there’s not a better area of the United States of America to live in but down here under that ole’ Mason-Dixon Line. I was born in Arkansas. It’ll always be home, and I love that it was a rough and tumble frontier state back in the antebellum years. My family moved to Georgia for around a year, when I was about six years old. I still remember the red clay dirt and beautiful hills and forests. Even though I went through the trauma of losing an eye while we lived there, I remember the place fondly. We moved back to Arkansas soon after, and I was raised in the land of my birth. I loved it. It wasn’t until 2004 that I moved to Tennessee. It was also during a traumatic time of my life, but I’ve grown to love my adopted state very much over the past two decades. I still won’t wear orange, but I’ll root for the Titans. I’ll always be a Razorback and Red Wolves guy. Red is my color. I guess what I’m saying is that I love the South. I bleed sweet tea.

    I fell in love with history and warfare when I was still in grade school. I would always read ahead in my history book, because I was curious about what had happened in the world, and the class seemed to slow down the narrative. I love biographies of people like Churchill, Patton, Eisenhower, Lincoln, General Lee and even Nathan Bedford Forrest. I read a book called “War Stories” that I’d bought at a discount store when I was probably twelve. It contained short stories about men at war from the Civil War, the Spanish American War, World War One and Two, and Korea. I was fascinated. I loved the strategy, the tactics, the historical significance and the tales of individuals suffering through unimaginable hardships with the fear of death looming over them. Yes, I may have glorified war, at least unknowingly, for many years. I imagined myself in the thick of a deadly fight with the enemy, just like you see in the movies. When you’re a kid playing war you just don’t understand that getting shot isn’t all “ugh! Ya got me!” then you spin around and fall down, only to resurrect yourself to fight again in round two. It’s no video game. Actually, when I played it, war was done with either dirt clods, or an appropriately gun-shaped stick. Few of us even had toy guns. We made do.

    As I grew older, the history of the U.S. Civil War enthralled me. I mean, think about it. Combine the cavalry charges, the screaming Rebel yells, the colorful uniforms, and the whole “brother vs brother” thing, and what’s not for a Southern boy to love? I found that it was far enough into the past to seem unreal and bloodless. It had happened right here, in my own backyard, though, so I knew it was real. There just wasn’t anyone left alive that could tell me how “real” it was. So I read, and still read, everything about it I can get my hands on. Yes, I’m THAT old guy. I don’t golf that much, so Civil War it is. I have my own favorite generals and most interesting battles. I enjoy learning new facts about things that put my wife to sleep quickly. The whole idea of the “War between the States” gives me historical “goose bumps”. I just have one concern. My favorite people from that era are generally the Southern figures. I have always loved to root for the underdog, especially when they’re the “home team” and my Civil War interests have mostly led me to research the folks that lost. My ancestors. The Confederates. The Southerners. I feel an empathy for them that borders on the illogical. I tend to look at the war from their point of view. That doesn’t mean I agree with them. I don’t. I do, however, see the causes leading up to the Civil War differently than most mainstream people today. It worries me that I may get confused with another kind of Southern Heritage History Buff. The ones that most folks call racist.

    It’s true that the Civil War was fought over slavery. It wasn’t just the moral issue, however. The entire culture and economy of the Southern States depended upon slavery to maintain its existence. Also, slavery was legal. It was the law of the land. When our founding fathers were crafting a constitution for our new union, they almost failed. The issue of slavery nearly fractured the original colonies into a much looser “confederation of states” that would have had a weaker central government than they settled on. They compromised. The Constitution never truly tackled the big issue of abolishing slavery, either right then, or in the future. They balked. And our great United States was born. It’s hard not to fault them, but it was a “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” situation.

    Many of our leaders owned slaves. Many did not. Again, it was perfectly legal back then. It was the Law of the Land. As our young country grew, and expanded, the European and English countries were banning slavery and the slave trade. The American South (and much of the North) held to the erroneous belief that the white race was superior to the black race. The economy of the South boomed due to the cotton trade. It made landowners rich to export the cotton to England, who industrialized the textile trade and got rich. The South neglected industrialization and was, basically, a one-crop kingpin. The Southern States refused to evolve with the times, economically or morally. Whether or not we would have eventually freed the slaves legislatively over time is a moot question. We fought a war over it, and we lost. States Rights aside, we were on the wrong side, morally, and we deserved to lose.

    Being a Southern boy, I’m still proud of my home states of Arkansas and Tennessee. I find a perverse glee in my heritage. The fact that secession split the country in half, that we created our own nation for a short time and fought with valor and passion for nearly five years against all mathematical odds amazes me even today. The individual bravery, their passionate belief that their rights were being trampled, and their unwillingness to stand aside while a far-away federal government dictated to them how they should live is the thing legends are made of. Many of us feel the same way about the federal government in today’s United States. The parallels are obvious. Many of us do feel disenfranchised from our government today. Helpless to change our leadership, mainly because it’s the choice between ambivalent political machines and modern madmen. It’s not much of a choice. Neither is war. We, as a nation, need to find more compromises that don’t involve shutting down the government, or removing elected leaders because they tick off the wrong people. In many ways our political climate is running as hot as the pre- Civil War politics did. We need to find a better way.

    All that being said, I still love the South. I make no apologies for slavery, because I believe it to be an evil that rightfully needed abolished. Those men whom I respect for their military prowess and personal courage and honor, I still respect. Just as I still respect our first President -George Washington- for not becoming a dictator, though he certainly had the opportunity. I also respect Thomas Jefferson, and his abilities as a diplomat and primary author of our Constitution. Both of these men, legally and within the conventions of their era, owned slaves. I certainly do not defend (or agree) with their participation in the slave trade. They are still great men of our Nation, and their time. Keep in mind even Father Abraham, progenitor of the three great religions, owned slaves. Yes, he was wrong too.

    My favorite Civil War general, Patrick Ronayne Cleburne, was an Irish-born Arkansan who commanded the 15^th Arkansas, in the Army of Tennessee. He gained a reputation for holding his ground when all others could not, for attacking with ferocity and intelligence, and treating his men with honor and respect. He fought beside Nathan Forest, Benjamin Cheatham and John Bell Hood from Shiloh, to Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, Ringgold Gap, Georgia and on until his death at the head of an ill-fated frontal assault at Franklin, Tennessee. He never owned a slave. His military career had frozen after he drafted a proposal in November of 1863 suggesting slaves be freed to serve in the military. He did his duty with honor and fell in the service of his chosen country. In his mind, that country was Arkansas first, then the Confederacy. When General Govan mentioned, just before the assault on Franklin that few of them would return to Arkansas to tell of this battle, Cleburne said “Well, Govan, if we are to die, let us die like men.” So, he did. How can I not love a Southern boy like that?

God bless y’all.

The world got smaller with the advent of the internet. Then it got stupider. I don’t think that’s an over-dramatization. You would think that having the World Wide Web at your fingertips would have made us better. Just think of all the information we have on tap. We can learn how to do almost anything with the click of an instructional video. We can look up any information on any subject at the speed of light. No need to check the encyclopedia, run to the library, or call a knowledgeable friend or colleague. Data, raw or filtered, is right there in your hand. Education is available in so many different forms, due to online degrees and other forums. The knowledge of the past and present is available for everyone. What do we do with it? We play on “social media” for nearly two and a half hours a day. Yup. We mainly watch funny, entertaining videos of less than three minutes (on average) for nearly two and a half hours a day. We be getting stupid. 

Before you brush me off as just being an old fogey with that “when I was a kid…” syndrome, keep in mind that I’m talking about my generation, too. We’ve bought into this stuff, in a big way, ourselves. Boomers have pretty much taken over Facebook. We’re on track to co-opt the major apps like Tik Tok, too. If they survive much longer. Those of us edging closer to retirement are making up more and more of the online presence. After years of “Hey! Put your phone down and talk to me” we’ve turned to “Huh? What’d you say? I was watching this cat…” Then we proceed to show said person our phone, and what the cat did, to their pure joy and excitement. We be as stupid as y’all young’ins.  

The average screen time for everyone’s time on the internet for all uses (ie work, communication, information, play, etc) is up to six hours and fifty-eight minutes a day. So, the world is faster, has more options, and is connected in ways that our grandparents would’ve never believed. We can complain to corporations about customer service in record time. From ten minutes after a bad experience at your local business, you can register a complaint and have a coupon emailed to you before you leave the building. Instant karma. The employee you complain about can be fired via text message, then go online and have a job interview lined up before he leaves the building, too. The internet is an awesome thing.  

No wonder we’re scared of AI. What happens when we simply give Artificial Intelligence the reigns to our lives, just so’s we don’t have to actually talk to a human being? That’s going to be a big draw for a lot of us. Just tell AI what you want done. Hal will be happy to take care of that for you. If you don’t know who “Hal” is, check out “2001 A Space Odessey”. It’s a weird sci-fi classic from 1968, directed by Stanley Kubrick. Hal was the AI computer that controlled the spacecraft Discovery One in the movie. Check it out. It doesn’t end well for most of the crew. Any time we try to put automations (intelligent or not) in charge of our lives, it really doesn’t end well.  

Anyway, y’all enjoy your cat videos.  

God Bless Y’all! 

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     She was born April 22, 1941, a Tuesday. Her daddy was a farmer and her momma worked at her school. It was before Pearl Harbor, television, computers or the internet. Franklin Roosevelt was president, and Hitler was at the height of his power. Then in came Mary Bell Ferguson. The world wouldn’t be the same. 

     She grew up in simpler times, we’d say now. I think they were just as complicated as today, but with different issues. Civil Rights was gearing for its fight then, now we have Abortion Rights at the forefront of a struggle, again. Kids in the fifties were still kids. They wanted to rebel, just like now. Mary Bell rode bicycles on dirt roads, went to dances at school, and cruised the backroads, listening to rock and roll and country music. She, and her friends, went on dates, made out with guys (ooh yuck!) and did all the things that teenagers still do. Then she fell in love and got married. Things changed. 

     From the late fifties to the mid-sixties, she had four kids. I was the last. Still her baby at fifty-eight, I’m happy she’s, my mom.  I look back at all she did for us kids, and her family in general, and I’m impressed. I had four kids myself, so I know how hard it is to raise that many youngins. She did an awesome job. Just look at me!  

     In recent years, as I approach my sixties, I think about who my mom was when she was young. Before my dad, and us kids. I try to put together the image from bits and pieces of old photos, and stories mom tells. It’s hard to see your parent as a person. They are so imprinted in your mind as a parent that imagining them as being no different from you is nearly impossible. She had dreams, aspirations and goals just like any young person. She liked movies, music and hanging out with her friends just like I did. Then life took her places she didn’t see coming. A husband, kids and a home to care for took up most of her life. I’m grateful for all that she did for us, because my life was so much the better for it. But she made all of us her life and put her own desires on the back burner. Heck, she put it all back in the cabinet and closed the door. She lived a selfless life so that we had everything a family could need. She was base camp for Team Stone. Thank you, Mary Bell, for being that woman that put her family first. I know you’d do it all again. 

     When I look at old black and white photos of my mom, I see so many people. Me. My sisters and brother. My kids, especially my daughter, Candice. Mary Bell’s eyes dance with mischief, and she poses like a tough little kid with a determined spirit that doesn’t give up. They’re the same eyes I see even today when I’m talking to her. That tough little girl just grew up to be a tough little lady. And her sense of humor, her matter-of-fact way of making her opinions known, and the love she still shows to each member of our family, still shines in those eyes. Eighty-three years of living may have slowed her body down, but I see everything that makes her a beautiful woman still intact. She’s still an awesome little girl inside, just the outside has changed. I’m pretty sure I’d have loved to hang out with her way back then, because I love hanging out with her now.  

     I love you, Mom! Happy Birthday! 

God Bless Y’all! 

P.S. 

     A quick shout out to another little lady, Miss Marilynn, who was the recipient of the only autograph given out at my Estate Sale this past weekend. Hang onto that autograph, girl! It’s probably going to be a rare item in the future! It was a pleasure to meet you! 

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    I’m having a yard sale this weekend. I guess it’d be more accurately called an “estate sale”, since almost everything in it had belonged to my late mother-in-law and her husband, Max. When Gma passed away last December, she left behind a lot of stuff. A lot. She was an avid auction, estate and yard sale person herself. She loved a good deal. It didn’t matter if it was ceramic ducks (selling a ton of those), artwork (lots of paintings too), or Depression-Era glassware (man! There’s a whole lot of glassware in this house), she loved getting a bargain. She would go to the bargain stores in Jackson and come back with a wide variety of items. Costume jewelry (of which we will be selling most of this weekend) and fake plants (those are going in the sale) were two of her favorite things. Gma would buy crock pots (at least two of those are in the sale) even though she had enough of them. In recent years, she had slowed down on buying furniture (but we still have a lovely couch and sofa chair to sell this weekend). She had two freezers (of which we will be selling the BIG six-foot long, lay-down freezer cheap! Be sure to bring a truck. We don’t deliver.)

    Her husband, Max, passed a few years ago. He was quite the collector, too. His tastes were unique, to say the least. He loved cast iron cookware (there’s a truckload of the stuff, and it’s priced to sell! Frying pans, pots, at least one cast iron tea pot, and Oh! So much more). Strangely enough, he got into collecting Collector Edition Barbie Dolls, many years before last year’s “Barbie” movie came out. He thought they might be a good investment (and so will you! Come down and check out over twenty “still in the box”, great condition Barbies from the mid to late 90’s! There’s also a bin of loose, unboxed Barbies and Kens). He loved to smoke meat, barbecue (good smoker for sale) and cook (oh, my dear Lord, we have a lot of HUGE aluminum pots, as well as baking pans, not to mention utensils, that will go for little or nearly nothing). He also loved to collect John Deere collectibles (die cast metal tractors, hats, etc.for sale – but at a limited supply). He had quite a few harmonicas, as well. (You KNOW I’m selling those! My grandkids ain’t running around my house blowing those things). Max was a trucker once upon a time, and he wasn’t a fan of getting rid of stuff. He mainly hauled mobile homes (for which he left flagging material, hard hats, truck fixtures like mirrors, 15w30 diesel oil in half a dozen jugs, a couple of briefcases, and – get this – six or seven cb radios and various antennas! They will go cheap! Also, he left some “OVERSIZE LOAD” signage that would look great on your wall, and a Motorola “belt phone” -still in a leather zippered case, from the nineties-great conversation piece) He was a regular Renaissance Man, that Max.

    Way back when, Gma and Max canned their own vegetables. Tomatoes were their favorite. They shared a lot of produce with us over the years, to my ‘mater lovin’ delight. My wife, Laura Gail, and I never learned how (so now we have a HUGE quantity of mason jars, lids, canning supplies and cookery to move-fast! We’ll be packing them into plastic milk crates, which you can keep) so we really don’t need those supplies. They both worked in the yard a lot (and acquired an over-abundance of gardening tools, of which the excess will be in the sale).

    They kept just about everything, being from a generation that didn’t grow up with a lot. When they got to where they could afford stuff for themselves, they held onto it, even when they had multiples of the same thing. (hand tools, old tractor wrenches, twine, plumbing and electrical parts-all MUST go!)

    I’m a sentimental guy. I hold onto things for which I really have no use (exercise equipment, desks, a microwave, toys, etc will all be sold!), but they make me look like a Tibetan Monk with a vow of poverty. Still, it’s hard to have to go through our loved one’s personal treasures (so come on down this Saturday and Sunday, April 20^th and 21^st, from 7am to 2pm and help us find all of this stuff a brand new home!) but since we’ll be eventually moving into their house ( 461 state route 186 south, Humboldt, TN-look for the ESTATE SALE sign out front!) we have to make room for our own things. Like I said, it’s hard to sell other people’s treasures. But we’re going to force ourselves to. Come on down this weekend and get yourself some bargain treasures! This is an opinion column and, in my humble opinion, you can’t afford to pass up this sale. Lots of stuff inside the house, as well as outside. Come rain, or come shine, it’s gonna go down this weekend.

    Disclaimer: This has been a blatant and desperate attempt to get all of you to come buy some pretty awesome stuff. Forgive me if you feel that I’m taking advantage of you by telling you about this in my column. Oh, and if you mention “Kevin’s Corner” at the yard sale I’ll be happy to sign an autograph and take a photo with you. Free of charge. I love taking selfies with folks. Or you can give me a dollar not to. Y’all come!

God bless y’all!

     The sun beams through the clouds and warms the early April morning. A cool breeze is gently blowing. I drive to work with questions in my mind, but few answers. In a world as beautiful as ours, why do we see so much heartache and pain? Earthquakes, wars, famine and flood. Nature, in all its wonder, attacks us humans with almost as much ferocity as we attack each other. It’s a pretty awesome place to live, most of the time. People are pretty awesome most of the time, too.

      We’re born into the world with our own little clique of folks that raise us, love us and care about us. We’re so little and frail, but they take care of us and teach us about the world and try to give us the skills and materials to make it out in the world on our own. We go out into that world and do stuff. They watch. With cautionary glee and excitement, they pray for us. They give us of their own things, time and wealth, just to help us get on our feet and find our path. Sometimes they watch us grow to be strong and healthy adults, sometimes we don’t get there at all. Yet still they care. And we care about them. That clique of folks, called a family, grow older as we mature. They pour out their wisdom to us, whether we listen or not. We think we know so much. 

     The older I get, the more I know how much I don’t know. I know that sounds like a cop out. It’s not. I’ve just adjusted to the fact that I’m a very small man in an extremely large universe. Some of the things that I thought I knew in my twenties turned out to be quite bogus. I started being a tad cynical in my thirties, then, in my forties, the realization that I may not be as smart as I thought I was crawled up and slapped me in the face. Not coincidentally, I lost my first wife, Sam, and my Dad just before I turned forty.  

     Losing people in our lives isn’t easy. It’s the hardest thing people do, in my humble opinion. It doesn’t matter if it’s a sudden surprise, or a long, drawn-out thing that you have time to think about and plan for. You can’t replace those people in your lives. The loss is real. It hurts. To grieve for a lost child, a parent, a sibling, and a friend is the single most painful thing we humans do. Because we love them. They were a part of us, and then they’re gone.  

     So, what do we do? That’s a really good question. I refer back to my original statement about how much I don’t know. There’s no cure for death. We’re all going to leave this world. We folks left behind will live our lives without them. That hole won’t be refilled. It will remain missing, because the Good Lord only makes one of each of us. Others will be in our lives, not to fill those holes, but to help balance us out, and to love us through this life. The best way I can put it is this: we have to live through death and treat each person in our lives with love and respect. Say the things you want to say, tell them that you love them. Let unimportant things go. Show them love and enjoy them while you can, because none of us are promised another day. When the sun shines bright through the April morning clouds, and warms the world around us, we need to appreciate it, and appreciate each other. When the ones you loved are gone, remember them. Then love the ones you are left with, with all your heart. Isn’t that a pretty good idea, anyway? I think so. 

God bless y’all! 

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    I find myself wondering what I would’ve done. If the man I’d followed for three years, watching with respect, love and awe, had hung from a tree like a criminal and died. Murdered by my own people, my fellow countrymen. If I had walked the countryside, spreading the word of love and forgiveness, of being the “good neighbor” and being a person of peace, only to stand helpless while my own religious leaders made him an example of blasphemy and rebellion against authority in order to silence him. Would I have raised a sword to the religious police that came to the garden? Would I have spoken out in protest? Would I have shouted in anger and begged for his release? Or would I have faded into the crowd and tried to watch from afar, as He was marched to His fate? I like to imagine I would’ve tried to do something, to say something, anything. In truth, I know I wouldn’t have. I would’ve waited to see what Jesus would do. Just like they did.

    Jesus knew what would happen to Him. He knew. He asked His Father to take it from Him, but He knew what had to happen. He walked, as a lamb to slaughter, to His fate. He knew that there was no other way. He’d taught us all that we needed to know, in His stories, His parables, and His sermons. Love your enemies. Be the good neighbor. Love God. Forgive those who sin against you. Turn the other cheek. Be humble. Let God judge. Be at peace with man and God. A few listened. They told others. His followers grew. They saw the miracles with their own eyes. He turned water into wine. He walked upon the waters. He healed the lame, the blind, the crippled, and the lepers. He raised the dead. Still, they did nothing when it came time for Him to taken away. They waited to see what Jesus would do.

    In the upper room, they mourned. They worried. They were afraid. Some decided to go fishing. It was what they knew. He wasn’t there to guide them, and they felt lost. Until He entered the room. Alive. In person. The man they’d seen tortured, nailed to a tree, until His last breath passed from His lips and they saw Him die, had come back from the dead. Their eyes were opened and He gave them instructions, before He left this world, to tell the world. The stories, the parables and the scripture came alive in their souls, and they acted upon it. They knew that He’d had a plan all along. And He knew that they wouldn’t have been able to stop what He had to go through. No armed rebellion, no act of protest, not a word of argument against the authorities, could’ve stopped God’s plan of salvation for a sinful world. He had to give His life for His friends. All of us. Because He loves us.

    It humbles me to know that Peter, John and all the rest were just like me. I would’ve been just as scared. I would’ve been just as silent. I would have never gathered up the courage to say “no!” to the soldiers and the corrupt leaders. But Peter, John, Matthew, Philip, Thomas, Bartholomew, Andrew, Simon, Jude, James, and the two James didn’t stay silent after the resurrected Jesus went home to His Father in Heaven. They went and told the world about it. All of it. Just as He told them to. That’s why we know all about it now. I hope I can find it in me to be like those men who took it seriously to “go and tell”. Those same simple men who cowered in fear. Those same simple men who spent the rest of their lives telling the world about Jesus, whose life, death and resurrection saved us all from eternal death. I hope I don’t have to wonder about what I would do now. He is risen. Now, go and tell.

Happy Easter, and God bless y’all.

    Twelve years. An even dozen years ago. In some ways it was a lifetime ago. Most days it feels as if it went by in the blink of an eye. There are many people that weren’t in my life back then that are my whole world now. The last decade of my life seems to have flown by like a dream. A very good dream. 

    Laura Gail and I were wed on March 25, 2012. A Sunday. The small wedding chapel was decked in white. Our family, and friends, were there. I waited at the front of the chapel with the preacher as the doors opened and the music began. Laura, escorted by her sons, Jon and Cody, almost tripped coming in, but she recovered without my even noticing. She told me about it later. I was too awed by her as she floated towards me. She was a beautiful bride. My bride. I was proud, happy, and scared all rolled up in the same emotion. Typical nervous groom. The preacher said some stuff that I can’t recount, because when he said “Kevin, WILL you…” all that went through my head was “WILL you?! I thought it was supposed to be DO you…! What do I say?! Do I say ‘I will’? Or do I say “I do”? The Grammar Police were banging on my mental door, demanding a decision, and I had scant time to think about it. So, when he finished that sentence, a lifetime later, I reasoned in my head that he’d said, “WILL you” so I must respond with “I WILL”, despite hundreds of generations of people saying, “I do” and the fact that THAT’S JUST WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY. Nope. I went with “I Will”. My eyes betrayed my agony to Laura Gail, and she saved me. When asked the age-old question of “Will you” she also responded with “I Will”. Thus began her (so far) twelve-year journey of trying to keep me from making an ass out of myself. I’m sure it’s not been easy for her, but she does it like a champ.

    I don’t deserve this woman. She’s too good for me. Definitely above my pay grade. I’ve been an idiot at times. I’ve made bad decisions that would have justified her leaving me in her past. I’m not the good guy in all of my stories. But she’s still here. She still loves me. She’s picked me up, dusted me off and made me want to be a better man. She didn’t have to, but she chose to. She decided to be with me through all of life’s up and downs, and I’m just smart enough to do the same. I got that part right. 

    Commitment isn’t just for mental patients. We married people do it too. We’re crazy enough to believe that loving each other means sharing everything about ourselves. Our failures. Our accomplishments. Our wealth. Our poverty. Our joy. Our depression. Accepting it all, without following through with the urge to smother them with a pillow when they snore, is what love is all about. You even find the snoring kinda cute, later. Much later. Romance is fun. Waiting to use the bathroom, not so much. Having someone bring you a hot cup of coffee without asking is wonderful. Being told “you know where the kitchen is” when you’re too lazy to get out of the recliner is a more realistic expectation. Love is real like that.

    I have no real advice to people who are contemplating marriage. I know nothing about women. I’m honestly confused about why she lets me hang out with her, even after twelve years. About the only thing I think I’ve figured out is that you can’t really get inside a woman’s head and figure her out. So don’t try. Appreciate, and accept, the person she is. Put her on a pedestal in your heart. Give her what she needs. A man to stand beside her, to listen to her, and endure both the joys and sufferings of life together, is what you are. Be that. It’s all I try to do. For the rest of my life, I Will.

God bless y’all.