Growing Pains #3, "The View From Behind"

The View From Behind

Today my son outran me.  To be honest, that is no great feat.  Over twenty years ago, when I was on the high school wrestling team, I and a guy we called "Panda" were the slowest guys on the squad.  You would think that a guy with that kind of history would find losing a foot-race to be insignificant at this time in life, but it wasn't.

In my forty-first and his fourteenth year my son outran me.  Oh, I always knew it would happen, and besides I'm still not the slowest in the family.  If I stay healthy, I'll be able to outrun my older boy for a long time.  In fact he's not even interested in running far enough to see if he can outrun me.  He seldom runs at all unless someone's chasing him or he's chasing a ball.  But the younger guy has the lean, leggy, loose-jointed look of a distance runner.  We've run together a number of times.  I can remember days when I waited on him, and other times when I wore ankle weights as a handicap.  My mind told me, "He is on his way up and I'm on my way down."  Still, it just didn't seem right to finish our three mile run seventy-five yards or so behind him.  I knew it was coming, but it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

I guess I'm a closet romantic.  I had imagined a long process: the time in which I could generally outrun him would gradually become the time in which we were evenly matched and that would shade into the time in which he could generally outrun me.  I imagined this process stretching over a couple of years of good natured rivalry.  My "process" was compressed to one morning--a little more than twenty minutes. 

Like I said, I knew it would happen.  I'm getting older and stiffer and slower.  He's getting older and stronger and faster.  This morning about a mile and a half out, his growing strength surpassed my aging strength and, I am reminded, life will never be the same again. 

I was judging everything by the slow, comfortable, plodding decline that I see taking place in my body.  I had forgotten the explosion of change that takes place in the young.  I guess, especially since it was my youngest child, I was forced to realize that never again could I simply assume the mastery of these two lives that I had helped to bring into the world.

My youngest son outran me today.  He and his older brother will do a lot of that.  Already there is so much in their world that I can't quite reach.  When I finished the race this morning I was just a short way back.  Soon both my sons will be running off out of sight accomplishing what I never will. 

I would be lying to you if I said it didn't matter.  It does.  I write with a strange, proud sadness.  It is a feeling that those who have not been parents will have trouble grasping.  It is the passing of an era, but it is a good passing.  I'm nursing a sore thigh, but I've been training some any how, and I'll be increasing my milage when my leg feels better.  I plan to outrun him again, but it will never be the same.  It can't be.  It shouldn't be.

My son outran me today. 

Run, son.  Run far and fast and straight.  Run with purpose.  Run when your legs ache and you think you can't go any more.  Run when your comrades have given up.  Run because God has placed in your heart something worth running for.  Run, because even though I can't keep up I'll be with you.

Son, now that you can outrun me, remember how I used to wait on you.  I'd love to run with you every once in a while, but look out, because on one of those days when you just don't feel right and I feel great I'll get you.

Postscript (March 1999):

I will enter my 49th year this month.  After the day I describe in this story I never did outrun my son again.  I don't feel bad about that, because there were lots of others who didn't either.  Chris went on to set his school record for the mile and two-mile.  He was single A state champ in the two-mile his senior year.  He presently runs for Cedarville College.  He is nursing a bad foot but plans to compete in track this spring. 

He has done well, running and in other ways as well.  He will graduate this year, after only three years.  He is getting married in August.  He plans to pursue a career in Youth ministry.

Though, I can't run with him any more, we do enjoy occasional bike rides together.

I enjoy watching him run!

Happy 21st Birthday Son.

dad

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Tales From The Hogback #4, "THE STOPPER"

THE STOPPER

     The ruckus was just awful at the meetinghouse up on Hog Back Ridge. An outsider, listening in, might have thought that some strange form of Pentecostalism was the explanation for the racket coming from the church, but Parson Smedley knew better, or worse, I should say.  Earnest Ledbetter's hog had gotten under the church again.

     "I might as well quit right now." fumed Smedley, trying to remain calm on the outside. "That racket'll keep up 'til Rattler gits the ole biddy to leave."

    No one knew just exactly why A. J. Campbell's hound, Rattler, thought it was his duty to keep all hogs out from under the meeting house, but it was a task that he faithfully executed, meeting time or not.

     "I sure wish that hound would have waited a few minutes to evict the ole gal."  Smedley thought as he continued to hold forth. "I only wish A. J. was as concerned about the Lord's house as that dog a his."

     Smedley, resourceful preacher that he was, rose--quite literally--to the occasion. He yelled louder than hog and dog and thus finished his message on the text, "Be still and know that I am God."

_____

     At dinner that day, Flora Jean noticed that Smedley poked and chewed his pork chops with particular vigor and relish. Knowing the wisdom of silence at such times she quietly passed potatoes, biscuits and pork, which as the closest relative of that morning's offender, Smedley attacked in such a way that it was clear that his goal was not merely nourishment, but vengeance.

     While the parson was thus venting his emotion on the forth pork chop, the Mrs. let the young Smedley's know that it was a good time for them to "see to that dog that you aggravated us to let you have."  Jim Bob, the eldest, started to object, but Flora Jean gave him an "If-you-open-your-mouth-you-won't-sit-down-for-a-week" look, so he decided that Queenie might indeed need some attention. It was the last of the pork chops and with nothing else to chew on Flora Jean feared for the welfare of the nearest representative of the Canine tribe.

     "That Ole sow's been to church mor'n most a m' members lately." Smedley croaked hoarsely as he wiped the gravy from his chin. "Cain't blame 'r though.  Ain't no shade over t' Ledbetter's place.  It's cool under the meetin' house.  Ledbetter's fence falls down every time the wind blows. Ole Rattler, he thinks he's a doin' his duty tryin' to run'r outa there." All this was delivered as if the parson were speaking to someone perched in the corner where two walls meet the ceiling.  "Musta been twenty five folks said to me, "Preacher, somethin's got to be done 'bout this!" Ole Abner, though, thought it was just great. Said, "Best I heard the choir do in many a year!""

     "But the choir..." Mrs. Smedley interrupted.

     "I know" Smedley responded, but I didn't have the heart to tell him. The Old man's nearly deaf and blind 'n' if he got a blessin' outa that hog 'n' dog ruckus why should I spoil it by tellin' him we ain't had a choir fer three months." 

     "Well, something has to be done," intoned the preacher's wife in that crisp staccato usually reserved for unruly children. "That hole in the cellar HAS to be patched."

_______

    "The Hole" had plagued Smedley ever since the Rock Bottom Mining Company had been blasting in old number three, and the tremors had loosened the church's foundation stones. After the spring thaw it was clear that a three-foot section would have to be replaced. The Hog Back Ridge Meeting House Maintenance Committee got right on it. They were unloading wheelbarrows and mortar--Zeke Hawkins, the best stonemason on the ridge had showed up to help--when Oliver Bellam came up.

     "You don't mean to tell me you’re a goin' t' let these scoundrels get away with this travesty?" The five men stared at one another, knowing neither the identity of the "scoundrels" nor the meaning of "travesty." "It's a conspiracy I tell ya'," Oliver plowed on, using his eighth grade education to its fullest. "A diabolical conspiracy against the workin' man. The rascals over at Rock Bottom are tryin' to break our spirit by bombin' our meetin' house."

     Jed was about to point out that Homer Windholm, the founder of Rock Bottom, had given the land the meetin' house was built on and "$200 ta boot," but he didn't want to argue with "no educated man," so, like the rest of the fellows, he just kept quiet. No one even pointed out that Oliver hadn't been to services at the meeting house since "who knew when." He sounded so high and mighty. What could they do but quit?

_____

     The next week at the Hog Back Ridge Meeting House Official Board meeting, after listening to Oliver for some thirty minutes, Chairman Hiram Smith spoke:

     "Well, now, it does appear that Ollie's got a point here." The group chuckled to see Oliver's face turn so red that the freckles got lost in the camouflage.  "Ollie" was beneath the dignity of a man of Oliver Bellam's station, even when the name was used by Hiram, who happened to be Oliver's grandpa. "I think," the chairman continued, "we ought to write Rock Bottom a letter 'n' let 'em know how their blasted blasting busted our foundation."

     It was the next Sunday that round one between hog and dog took place.  Smedley took heart, though, when Opal McCatchen told him she was "writin' the letter this very week." Opal came down with the flu, but Ernestine Snodgrass was to type a letter down at the insurance office. This prospect pleased Smedley since he figured a type written letter would surely get some action. "Besides," He said, "God's work ought to be done first class."  Ernestine, "never did see the like of paper work," and promised, "to get at it directly," but never did. 

     It was about that time that round two took place. That was the one where the sow nearly got her ear chewed off.  When Smedley made a personal appeal to the Hog Back Ridge Meeting House Maintenance Committee, at the next monthly meeting, Hiram assured the distraught preacher that he would deal with it personally. He was going to the general store the next morning and call young Windholm, the new company president, on the telephone. 

    The phone was out of order, or maybe Hiram just didn't know how to "run the blame thing," and everybody knew he was just too stubborn to ask for help.  Anyway--may he rest in peace--Hiram went to his reward that Thursday. There was a good showing at the old saint’s funeral.  The family was "'specially thankful," that neither Rattler nor the Ledbetter's hog chose to pay their respects.

     In fact the weather turned cool and then cold and the hog had no need of shade under the Meeting House. Rattler spent his days lolling around the barn worn out from late-night coon hunts.  Except when reminded by an occasional blast of cold air that found its way through the floorboards when the wind was out of the North, everyone pretty well forgot about the hole.

_____

     About May, though, the folk were reminded. This time it was a sense other than hearing that was offended. Seems that Queenie, the feisty little cur that belonged to the Smedley brood, had penned up a skunk under the church. George Smedley proudly observed that the little dog, "Got the best a' that polecat." The congregation generally agreed with the Parson. "She got the worst a that fight, n' there was plenty left over fer us."  Even with the windows open it was "a mite close," for several weeks.

     After a particularly fragrant Sunday Smedley decided it was time to take the "bull by the horns, or the hog by the tail, or the dog by the ear, or . . .” Smedley was at a loss as to just where one grabs a skunk. "Anyhow, I'll just stop by n' speak to Mr. Windholm myself." And he did.

_____

     "Would $100 cover it Reverend Smedley?"

     Smedley was so struck that he could barely stammer, "Well yes, thank you very much, Mr. Windholm."

     "Let me offer my apologies for the inconvenience this has caused to your congregation." Windholm continued. "My family has supported the Meeting House for years. Let me know when the repairs are done. I'd like to stop by the next Sunday and let your fine congregation know how much I appreciate their good influence in this region."

     Windholm had been writing in his checkbook as he spoke. Smedley received the check with a hearty handshake and with a silent, "Thank you Lord." made his way out.

_____

     Smedley mused on his meeting with Windholm as he thoughtfully picked a bit of pork from his teeth, "Windholm will be too old to hobble to the Meetin' House by the time that hole gets fixed."

     The problem was the Hog back Ridge meeting House Maintenance Committee hadn't had a windfall like that since Cyrus Jones got saved back in 1906 and gave all his whiskey money to the Lord.

     "You know, I hear tell that lots ‘a folk is havin' their places termitted these days. Afore we shut up that hole we oughta get this place debugged. Lord knows what them hogs has carried in." The motion was seconded and carried and Latham O'Toole, Lulu's first cousin was hired to do the job, "cuz he'll give us a good price."

     "If'n there hada been any termites," Smedley commented to Flora Jean--who nodded and said, "Uhuh." even though she had no idea what her husband was talking about--"they'd a eaten the place, pulpit 'n' all by the time he finally got the job done."

     "It's a good thing we hired Latham," announced Wilmont Moore at the umpteenth meeting of the Hog Back Meeting House Maintenance Committee. "Not only did he do a bang up job exterminatin' them bugs, but he saved our Meetin' House from sure collapse."

     Smedley was of the opinion that the faulty beam, Wilmont had discovered, had been leaning for fifty years and would probably remain unmoved for another hundred. But, he couldn't come up with a good argument to resist the committee's conclusion: "It oughta be fixed while that hole's open." so he just kept quiet.

     Bob Carter had a railroad jack that would do the job, but it was "holdin' up the south end a' the barn." He assured the committee that he'd have a new locust pole cut, "soon as that no-account-brother-in-law a' mine brings back my crosscut saw."  Then I'll bring that jack right over."

     Smedley remembered that was the summer Ledbetter's sow raised a litter of sanctified pigs. Rumor had it that, "Preacher Smedley's preachin' made them hogs as tough as leather."

_____

     "Where are you going?" Flora Jean asked, as her husband rose up from his thoughts, or pork induced stupor--she wasn't sure which.  "Out," he answered. Not communicating any meanness but letting his wife know he didn't want to talk about it.   His question, yelled to his son Jim Bob, as he stepped into the yard, didn't explain anything to the puzzled woman.  "Why," she wondered, "is he asking Jim Bob about that old “STOP” sign that her nephew had brought up from the flat-lands last winter?"

     After Jim Bob appeared from behind the chicken house with the sign, Smedley returned to the kitchen and gathered up all the kitchen scraps--"fer bait," he said.  With a bucket of slop in one hand, a claw hammer in the other, followed by a boy with a stop sign, and watched by a wondering wife, the parson left through the front gate. Queenie, who had joined the strange procession, had to run to keep up with the parson's determined stride.

     She tried, but Flora Jean just couldn't get interested in cleaning up the kitchen. She picked up her embroidery, but dropped it on the porch swing as she headed off in the direction her husband and son had taken a few minutes before. 

     Hidden by a thicket of pines, she looked down the hill at the back of the Meeting House. At first it was all she could do to keep from laughing, but she had to admit, "It will keep the hogs and dogs out."

     The fact is, after Smedley added the word "SINNING" right below the "STOP," folk liked it so well that they decided to donate the rest of the $100 to missions and just leave it that way.

Previous Tale  --  Next Tale

Other Stuff #1, Good Mules:

GOOD MULES.

“I figure we’ll just split it up load fer load.”

Mike knew that arrangement wasn’t really fair, but he was fifteen and his uncle, who pronounced the terms of the split was a generation older, a big, raw-boned man, with work-worn hands like a “ham of meat,” a man Mike respected not just because he was his uncle.  Even though Mike was doing a man’s work, he instinctively knew it was his place to defer to his elder, so glancing at his team of big, red mules, he said, “I reckon that’ll do.”

The red, Tennessee dirt not knowing there was a Depression had brought forth an abundant harvest of corn.   When it was planted the agreement was made that the two families would split the labor and share the bounty.  The plowing, planting, and cultivating, were past.  Though just a boy in years, Mike had done his part of the labor.  “Mor’n his part.  Truth be told.”  The big ripe ears needed to be “got in,”  otherwise, weather, varmints, and birds would spoil the generous increase from the land. 

The soil may have been ignorant of current economics, but Mike wasn’t.  He barely remembered his dad, who had died before he was in school.  His death left a widow and three boys, to make their way.  Others had helped, but especially since the boys “got 'bout grown” they were expected to earn their own bread.  Today, both literally and figuratively the bread Mike’s family needed was being loaded onto two wagons; half would become cornmeal and feed for Uncle Rick’s family and his stock, half, if he could keep up, would supply Mike’s family and farm until the next harvest.

We’ll leave motives and intentions for another day.  Two facts were of supreme importance:  Mike’s wagon was the older, iron-rimmed variety, whereas Uncle Rick’s was a rubber-tired rig, and between the field and the road there was a low place.  The ground there was still soft from a thunder shower a few days ago.

Mike took a little longer than usual caring for Jess and Pete that evening.    He never ignored his stock and he was especially careful about the team of mules that he had worked since they were barely grown.    Folk in the little community often spoke of how good Mike was, especially for a boy, with horses and mules.  Though Mike admired these animals and would have fought anyone who attempted to treat them badly, Jess and Pete weren’t pets.  They earned their keep.  When they could no longer do what was required of  them, they’d be split up and sold cheap to some mostly retired farmer or guy on the edge of town with a little patch.  They’d be garden mules for a few years.  After that or if noboy wanted a mostly worn out mule they’d become sold for hides, dog-food, and part of the mix at the glue factory.  That’s just the way it was.  Times were hard and sentimentalism was expensive.  That’s why Mike spent some extra time brushing out the long-eared beasts’ coats, checking their hooves and running his hand over their shoulders where they had strained against their collars.  After he was sure they were all right, and, after making sure no one was around, he told them, as he poured out an extra measure of oats for each, “You boys sure earned your keep today.”

One of Uncle Rick’s boys took care of his mules.  The weathered farmer had just settled his six-foot-plus frame into a chair on the porch to read the paper and get some rest before supper, when A. J. Johnson, a retired neighbor stopped by with a bag of late season tomatoes.  “We got more’n we can use.  I thought I’d bring ya a mess.” 

“Thank ya kindly.  My wife’s garden dried up ‘fore that storm came a few days ago.”

“Yep, I reckon my patch was just a mite damper’n yours.  That rain came just ‘bout right to make ours last a while.  Say, speakin’ a that rain.  I figger it made it right rough gittin’ that corn outa that bottom field.  Ain’t there a wet-weather spring in the lane?”

“Yep.  I’z awful glad I bought that wagon with the rubber tah-res.  If it hadn’ a been fer that, that nephew a mine da beat me.”

“Huh,” the old man said after waiting for an explanation.

“We’d planted that field together.  We’z s’possed to split it fifty-fifty.  So I told the boy he’d take a load and I’d take a load.”

A suspicion hung in the air, but the old neighbor knew it wasn’t his place to bring it up, so he just asked, “Mike get a new wagon?”

“Nope.  It’s that same iron-rimmed rig thats older’n him.”

The old neighbor had worked enough stock and hauled enough loads to know what all this meant. 

“Well, I reckon that low place must’a dried up quicker’n I thought.”

“Nah,” Rick said thoughtfully, it’s a pure dee lob-lolly.” 

“I never seen anything like it.”  Rick continued after handing the tomatoes to one of the boys who was headed in for supper.  “We got about two-thirds full on the first load ‘n’ I told Mike we could quit whenever he figured it was enough.  ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘I don’t ‘spec ya to do me no favors.’  I told ‘m I’d go on out first & come back to help him.  When I left he was strokin’ one of them big mules a his and talkin’ low.  When I come back Mike was out beside the wagon with long reins, not takin’ no nonsense from Jess n Pete.  Them mules was comin’ up the far side of low spot with fire in their eyes.  That mud was suckin’ them wagon wheels right in.  If they’d a stopped fer a second I knew thered be nuthin to do but fer me to go get my team & try to pull’m out.  Them mules ud slip n go down on their knees but they never quit pullin’.  It was the beat-n-est  thing I ever seen.  

That’s the way It went all day.  He matched me load fer load n ear fer ear.”

A. J. waited for more, but that was all Rick had to say.  Out loud anyhow.  Rick’s look was something between amazement and adoration.   Finally A. J. broke the silence.   “That boy always was a good hand with stock.  I reckon I better be getting’ home r the missus’ll send the hounds after me.”

“I reckon your ‘bout half right,” Rick said.

The look in A. J.’s eyes was all it took to communicate the question.

“He’s a good hand with stock.  ‘bout as good as I ever saw, but he ain’t no boy.”

It was next week that A. J. run into Mike down at the mill.  Mike was hauling some corn down to have it ground.  “Ya uncle told me ‘bout how much trouble it was gittin’ that corn out.”

“I reckon plenty a other folks has it a whole lot worse.”

“Anyhow, Rick gave ya a good word.”    

Mike just nodded as he went into the mill office.  As He walked past A. J. and the other old men sitting on nail kegs and sacks of feed, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Them’s good mules.”

A note by the Author:
This little story is still a work in progress.  Actually, I'm hoping that some of you who may have some information about the incident on which it is based, or some more accurate knowledge about mules, their ways, and traditional farming would give me the benefit of your knowledge.
The incident on which the story is based is something that was told to me for the truth.  The basic outline of the story, shared with me thirty years or so after it happened, and at least that long ago, was that there was a field of corn that was to be split fifty-fifty.  A young man--my rude calculation would place him in his teens--and his uncle were doing the split.  The arrangement announced by the older was that they would split it by the load.  The younger man had an old style wagon with steel rimmed wheels.  The older man had a new wagon with pneumatic tires.  I'm fairly sure mud was involved.  When the story was told to me I don't recall that the teller indicated any intention of the older man trying to take advantage of his nephew, but the implication is clearly there. 
The thing I remember most about the story was that the man who told it was some what awed that the younger man had kept up with his uncle even using inferior equipment.
Since I started with such a tiny scrap of information, no doubt eroded and embellished by my faulty memory, I present this story as a piece of fiction.  For a number of you it took about half a second to identify who Mike and Rick really are, but I feel better throwing a veil of anonymity over the principals, even if it is a very thin one. 
I tell the story not only to preserve some of the lore of my family, but because it captures a pride in work and connection with the real world that many today totally miss.  We miss it to our own detriment.
I hope you enjoy it.

Tales From The Hogback #3, "A Slow Ride"

Usually Smedley enjoyed the view of the Hog Back, and the occasional glimpses of the valley below, that his perch on Sairee's back afforded him.  The simple pleasure of feeling the sun's rays warm his black coat on a brisk spring day almost never failed to generate thanks in the preacher's heart, and not infrequently from his lips.  Usually, he rather enjoyed the time that the mule's plodding gait afforded him to think.  "A man can do a lot a thinkin' on the back of a mule."  He would often say.  Usually, Smedley was calmed by the faint "crunch" and "thud" of Sairee's feet striking the path, mingled with the million sounds around him.  Usually, but not today.

If will of rider could have been translated into speed of beast, Sairee would have been a serious contender for the Kentucky Derby, but she was just an old mule ridden by a very agitated man.

The really strange thing was Smedley wasn't really in a hurry.  That is, he wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere.  Like Jonah he sought to escape his duty, but mules are no better able to accomplish that than ships bound for Tarshish. 

The "Amen" that dismissed the folk from the little white meeting house had concluded "a right good mornin' in the house of the Lord."  as Deacon Jones commented while pumping the parson's hand.  When Sister Juney May Lewis finally got to the end of her apology--" . . . my cousin from the flat lands was comin' this evening and the house was a mess 'n I don't have a thing fit to eat fer supper 'n I’ve just got to finish that feather tick so they'll have a place to sleep . . ."--and asked Smedley if he could please deliver the gift from the church's benevolent fund to the Widow Douglas, he gladly said, "Yes."  The Parson always enjoyed visiting with Widow Douglas.  He was always refreshed by the glorious spirit that peeked out through those sparkling eyes from its arthritic prison.  Heaven always seemed so real when you bent over that frail form and listened to words about, "My Jesus." 

Besides that, Flora Jean had fixed a mess of calf liver that Junior Withrow had given to them last week.  She said, "It wouldn't do to let it spoil."  Smedley wasn't sure that a little putrefaction wouldn't help the stuff out.  He was sure there would be no liver in Heaven, and he refused to say grace over the stuff down here.  "The Lord knows m' heart and there ain't no need tryin to convince Him that I'm thankful."  He would say as he asked Flora Jean to do the honors.  Always the optimist the thought occurred to Smedley, "It might all be gone."

No matter how much the parson tried to focus on all of this blessing and possible deliverance, he just couldn't escape this morning's message.  Like a fly on a summers day it kept lighting and try as he would he could neither kill it nor keep it away.  

"If God loved this sorry, sin-sick world," His message echoed." Then surely we kin love our neighbor.  If God kin put up with the likes a'us then we kin surely go outa' our way to reach out in love to them that God brings our way.  If God so loved the world that He gave His own precious Son, then how kin we say that anything is too hard, when it comes to reachin' out to some needy soul with love and kindness and the gospel."  Smedley had meant those words all right.  The quiet attention on the faces of the little congregation showed that they all knew that.  Even now as the words plagued the preacher's conscience he, "wouldn't change a one."

The Jones house lay right between the Douglas' place and the parsonage.  The Jones house was the biggest, finest and newest house on the Hog Back.  All the neighbor's called the Joneses "flatlanders."  They didn't fit in any better than their massive--by Hog Back standards--house fit in with the simple mountaineer's cabins that dotted the landscape.  Their progress at making friends with the mountain folk was about as slow and inconsistent as that of their car--the first on the mountain--along the rugged mountain roads.  Some of the folks had tried.  Oliver O'Connor had tried to show Sam Jones the right way to build a fence.  Old Mrs. Smith had tried to show Mrs. Jones how to make a proper pan of corn bread.  Elijah Carter had tried to be neighborly by telling them that those "flatland garden seeds weren’t no count up here on the Hog Back," but it seemed like every time somebody tried to reach out to the Joneses they just moved further away.

"Hello, Reverend."  Sam Jones rang out.  He was the only man on the mountain that used that "high falutin'" title in referring to Smedley.  "We've been looking for you.  Hezekiah told us that you would probably be coming by this way.  Come in a minute, won't you?"

It's absolutely amazing just how much can go through a man's mind between a mules back and the ground:  The Joneses total lack of interest in the things of the Lord, in fact their downright belligerence and ridicule at Smedley's efforts to reach out with God's word, Smedley's struggles along the way,  "How can I ask others to love, when I am unwilling to love this strange family?"  now the unexpected invitation to the house, a house that Smedley had hoped to pass by unnoticed.

"Young Sam will care for Sairee.  Come on in.  Me and the missus have been wanting to talk to you.  Be sure to give her some water Sam."  He said, giving the mule an affectionate pat. 

"Sorry I don't have any oats or anything for a mule to eat." 

Smedley hardly had time to get over his shock at Sam's new-found kindness for animals, when he was ushered into the house, amid offers of iced tea, and "Glad to see you."s. 

When the preacher remounted his mule after an hour or so with the Jones family she received no kick in the flanks or urgings to hurry.  Deep in thought and prayer, the parson was so indifferent to the mule’s progress that she was able to take advantage of the lush spring growth that hung on the roadside.  Unfortunately the meal that awaited Smedley was not so appetizing.

"You want me to heat that up for you, honey?" 

"No, it won't help it none.  Sorry I'm so late.  I got invited in by the Joneses.  They just wanted to thank me for helpin' 'em get their car outa that mud hole last week.  I told 'em it wadn't nothin'.  Sairee done all the work.  They wanted me to stay fer dinner, but I told 'em you was expectin' me."  Smedley said as he looked forlornly at his plate of calf liver. 

"You know I'm beginnin’ to think that I was wrong about those folk.  It ain't so much that they're against the gospel as that they been hurt, and ain't figgered things out yet.  Did you know that they had a little girl that died of some strange blood disease 'bout a year ago?  That's why they didn't stop to thank me the other day when Sairee and me got 'em outa that mud hole." 

The puzzled look Flora Jean gave Smedley let him know that he had jumped a fence and left her on the other side.  "You know their littlest one, Timmy?  Well seems he all of a sudden took a fever and turned awful bad just like the little girl that died.  Betty, that's Mrs Jones’ name, was just beside herself."  Flora Jean's mother's heart showed on her face as her eyes beckoned her husband to go on.  "They grabbed the child up and headed straight for Doc Lazwell's.  That's when they got caught in that mud hole.  Said they were so beside themselves that they never even thought to say thanks 'til they was long gone.  Yeah Mrs. Jones might near lost it when that little girl died.  That's why they come up to the Hog Back, to get away from all the mem'ries and fast livin' down in Jefferson City.  Don't reckon we been much help to 'em though."

"Well, what about Timmy, is he all right?"  Flora Jean demanded.

"Oh, didn't I tell ya?  He's fine.  Just a round of the spring flu.  Kept 'em busy though, lookin' after him and keepin' up with everything else.  'Poligized to no end 'bout not thankin' me, an' they might near ruined my mule with attention.  I was afraid her head'd get so big it would just burst her old bridle."

Smedley's monologue ended at about the same time as the liver.  He was so preoccupied that he hardly grimaced as he chewed the final forkful of the foul tasting meat. 

"Do you think Betty might be interested in learning to quilt?"  Flora Jean asked.

"She just might," said Smedley, "but, before you ask her 'bout that, ask her to show you how to make some of that Chess Pie that I had today.  Well, I didn't want to be unsociable."  He responded to his wife's mock-stern look.  I figure everybody’s been so busy tellin' them how to do this 'n that, that nobody even took time to find out anything about them.

Flora Jean was busy with the after dinner chores, so as Smedley erased the liver taste with biscuit and jam he had a talk with the Lord about the Jones family and about his own heart.

As Flora Jean hung up her flour sack apron Smedley was savoring the last bit of blackberry jam on the last bite of biscuit. 

"Sure is good when things work out right."


Previous Tale  --  Next Tale

Growing Pains #2, Suck It Up:

I stood on the side of the cross country course watching my son go by, his face grimaced with pain, an ace bandage coming unwrapped, trailing from his left leg.  He had pulled up lame a week or so before; he hoped to be able to do well enough today to go on to the regional meet.  I was juggling my heart--not too skillfully I might add.  Do I encourage him to go on, knowing that if he goes on he'll push himself in such a way that his pain will increase?  Or, do I yell, "Son, don't hurt yourself.  Pull up."? I Know that no one will blame him for not continuing to run on a bad leg.  "These things happen.  You've got two more trips to the districts.  Even if you do hang on and qualify will your leg heal in time to do your best at regionals?" 

Of course I couldn't have said all of that out loud.  There wasn't time as he ran by.  But I knew that with a nod, a look, a few shouted words I could have communicated most all that.  Maybe it wouldn't have made any difference.  Perhaps I flatter myself to think that what I would say would make a difference at such a point.  Maybe, but I don't think so. 

Instead I yell, "Hang in there 'Topher.  Remember your brother's advice."  Big brother, his macho freshly charged with the news that he will be starting this Friday against the #1 football team in the state, had eloquently stated, "You gotta suck it up."  (For any who read who are not familiar with sports-macho-talk that means to keep going even when it hurts, for a determined mind to tell an injured body to keep on going.  For maximum effect the line needs to be delivered in a course low voice.)  It was my son's version of a thousand usually corny sounding statements that coaches spout and hang up on locker room walls.

Only today it wasn't corny. 

I knew success in life didn't depend on whether or not my son finished that race.  If he didn't qualify for regional competition his life wouldn't stop like some town clock forever frozen at the time of the big earthquake.  But all of us must learn to "suck it up."  Was this one of those times?  I wish I knew for sure.  I'm really not any closer to being sure today than I was yesterday. 

Maybe he needed to face the hard fact that God doesn't guarantee that hard work will lead to success--at least success as recognized by the passing out of ribbons.  Maybe he would have learned more courage by facing the potential scorn of his peers, who would say, "He had a big chance and he let a little pain get in his way."  Even in the quiet reflection of the next morning I don't know.  That is often how it is.  We just don't know, yet as parents, when our kids run by, we are expected to yell something.

Is this the time to let him stretch the limits?  Is he ready for this next step?  Do I encourage him to run through the pain or do I let him weep in my arms and tell him there will be other days, other races?  We aren't equipped with a manual that is that specific.  Even if we were, we wouldn't have time to read it.  So we stand on the sidelines and yell things as our kids go by.  We love them and try to have the best desires for them and try to listen to them and pray for them and hope that at that critical moment when they rush by on their way to adulthood we will yell the right thing.  I wish that it were more precise than that, but it's not.  If it weren't for the fact that I trust God I would probably give up in despair.

I am firmly convinced that my heavenly Father loves my boys even more than Kathy and I.  While I am yelling out to my sons He is encouraging me.  Like another old sports cliche', He only expects me to do my best.  I need to make sure that my soul is filled with His word and that my heart is tender to His leading.  At the critical moment there is no time to study; often there is not even time to think.  I need an internal guidance system that always points to the right way.  I need to regularly program that system with the data of the Bible.  Even if I do my very best the fact remains that I will sometimes fail; if I had to depend solely on my ability to always say and do the right thing in order for my sons to turn out right, I would be a very frustrated dad.  I try to do and say what is right, but in the final analysis I have trusted them to God.

It is hard.  I guess I just have to "suck it up."

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Growing Pains #1,

ONE OUT OF FOUR

I was looking at the man who was about to conduct the most important interview of my son's life.  This time next year this boy should be in college.  He has the plan, the ambition, the talent, the grades, but the money--that's what the interview was about. 

I had been chatting with the man for several minutes.  My son was off in another room taking something called a "physical aptitude exam."  The gentleman with whom I was speaking spoke to a great many young men and women who had the same hopes as my son.  We exchanged pleasantries for several minutes when the man told me that only about one fourth of the young people who came for this interview were accompanied by a parent.

My son is seventeen years old.  This interview could lead to a decision that would affect the next 13 years of his life.  My son is seventeen years old.  I thought about letting him come to the interview by himself.  I don't want to smother him.  This is his life.  The man is considering offering him the scholarship, not me.  If it is offered it is his decision to accept or refuse the money and the obligations that go with it. 

My son is apt to say that he is almost eighteen.  Using an inflection that makes that sound as old as possible.  I'm more apt to say, "He's only seventeen."  The truth no doubt lies somewhere between his inflection and mine.

Three out of four parents, who have managed to raise a youngster who gets good grades, who can generate good recommendations, who has the initiative to consider a program like this, just let that youngster go off to face the process alone.  Maybe I don't really trust my son.  Perhaps I cling to that irrational parental hope that just my being there will somehow change the facts.  Maybe I am clinging.  Maybe, but I don't think so. 

Just because our almost grown children can dress themselves and drive cars and make change and do all sorts of adult things doesn't mean that they are grown.  My son is at the age when I expect him to make most of his decisions himself.  He does a pretty good job, but I don't think he is ready to make all of them yet.  Probably most kids who read this will disagree.  They will speak of being old enough to fight in the military, vote, etc.  Some parents weary with the process will object:  "I got them this far," they say, "They’re on their own now."

My son is almost on his own.  For almost eighteen years I have sought to be a prime influence in his life.  I realize that my impression on him has largely been already made, but I'm not finished--not quite.  

My son is involved in making some decisions right now that will set the course of his adult life.  I want to help him to not blow it.  I am pleased with the person he wants to be.  But, his experience at how to become that person is pretty slim.  I am glad that what I have taught him is reflected in his plans for life; now I want to be there to help him bring those plans to pass.

I realize that I'm not being fair to those three out of four parents.  There are, I am sure, many reasons why they didn't accompany their teen to that important interview.  I don't write this to judge them.  I write to examine my own motives.  For a moment I wondered if I should have been there.  From somewhere came a voice that said, "You've worked all his life to teach him to fly now let him go."  Yes I am confident he can fly, but it is foggy out there.  I've seen the wreckage of too many who have crashed and burned because of poor decisions at the point of take-off. 

Through my son's life his mother and I have tried to point him in the right direction.  We have introduced him to the Lord and taught him to obey God's word.  We have sought to give him a system of values.  We have seen to it that he has gained the skills necessary to succeed.  We want to make sure that all his potential is not wasted.

That is why I was the one out of four.

Tales from the Hogback #2, DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH

As usual Parson Smedley was early at the little white meeting house up on Hog Back Ridge.  "Hymn books in place, pulpit looks shinier'n a silver dollar on a twelve year old's birthday.  Sister Jones must'a polished it.  Now let me make sure I don't lose my notes--put 'em on the pulpit to make sure."  Smedley ceased his Sunday morning checklist as he looked over the neat little room from his familiar vantage point behind the pulpit.  As he surveyed the pews that would soon hold the little flock, he directed some words heavenward. 

"Lord, you know right many ah your people been here and there lately.  Sometimes I feel like a man a tryin' to herd minners in a pond.  They go so many ways I don't know where to head.  Lord, I cain't ketch 'em but you kin.  You caught Balaam 'n' you caught Jonah 'n'you caught Saul a Tarsus.  Lord, please gather up this bunch 'n' git 'em to your house today."

Smedley finished praying; to be ready for Sunday School he got out the new chalk board (after a year and a half he had finally persuaded the deacons to buy one.) It was just then that Zeke Hawkins arrived.

"Guess your right surprized to see me ain'cha preacher?"  Indeed Smedley had been doing his best to hide the double shock at seeing Zeke in church at all, let alone early.  The parson was pleased that Zeke hurried on without waiting for an answer.  "You 'member my ole cow, Bessy?  Well, I ain't been able to be in church cuzzin by the time I milk her and feed her and strain the milk and put it in the spring house, well, I jest don't have time ta get ta church."

This story oft' told, always caused the parson's collar to feel a bit tight and hot.  He was about to comment that he had a cow to milk and chickens to feed and still he made it, but fortunately Zeke blurted on.

"Well, I went out to the barn this mornin' 'n' she was deader'n a revenuer on Hound Tooth Ridge."

Smedley had hardly had time to feel guilty for not having a greater burden of grief for the late Bessy, when in rushed Lulu O'Toole.  Lulu had wondered for years why no one had come to the realization that she would make a good wife.  Lulu had advanced beyond desperation years ago.  Her search for a man had reached an intensity that matched her ample proportions.  Smedley knew from long experience that Lulu's conversation was like a passing freight train.  Wisdom demanded that one stand back and let it pass.  To interrupt was to be run over.

"I nevuh!" she said with such force that Smedley already pitied whoever the unfortunate soul was who had the misfortune of crossing Lulu.  "And to think of all the chess pies and strawberry preserves and fried chicken I fed that man."

"She must be talking about that flatland insurance salesman," thought Smedley.  Neighbors had seen his buggy parked in front of Lulu's every Sunday morning and several evenings a week.  "I suppose a man could learn to put up with Lulu for her cookin'.  She kin sure cook--maybe if a fella' was blind 'n' deaf . . ." Smedley's unpreacherly thoughts were interrupted by a sudden rise in Lulu's volume and pitch.

"He took it!  He took it all!"  Between dabs and sniffles into the preacher's gallantly offered handkerchief, Lulu's tale unfolded.  It turned out that Lulu's suitor was interested in more than her biscuits and jam.  Seems he had taken Lulu's jewelry to have it appraised so it could be "properly insured."  Her grandma's basin and pitcher were gone to.  The insurance peddler hadn't been seen for three weeks, and rumor was he had been transferred out west.

Zeke was settling in, or trying to, while Lulu continued her tirade against "men!" to whomever would listen, when such a crowd began to fill the back of the meeting house that Parson Smedley was about ready to go outside and read the sign and make sure that this was indeed the "Hog Back Ridge Meeting House."

There were squirrel guns that wouldn't shoot, horses that pulled up lame right before a big trip to the city, a flat-bottom boat that got loose and went down the river, a still busted by revenuers, a coon hunt put off because of sick dogs, not to mention relatives that sent word on Saturday that they couldn't make it for Sunday after all.

Nobody could remember when the little church had been so full. 

When old Abraham showed up, late as usual, Deacon McSpraggins had to seat him on the front row, "Right in Spittin' range."  It so upset the old gentleman's system that Parson Smedley was a good five minutes into his message before the old-timer could get to sleep.

Folk left the church talking about "the fine message," and "wadn't little Samantha's song an inspiration?"  Not a few were obviously moved by the impact of the too long neglected Word of God.  Sooner or later just about everyone who had worshiped at the Hog Back Ridge Meeting House that Sunday got around to asking, "I wonder what the Parson meant when he prayed, "Lord, I thank you for takin' the gravel out of our pockets so we would have room for some diamonds.""

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