THREE LITTLE THINGS WITH LARGE IMPACT

 

THREE LITTLE THINGS WITH LARGE IMPACT 

September 2001

 

 

That wisest of men, Solomon, often spoke of the power and importance of little things.  He encouraged the lazy man to consider the ant (Prov. 6:6).  He admired the little conies (Prov. 20:26) for their tenacity.  He warned about the moment that could ruin a life (Prov. 7:22).

 A recent biking accident has left me with a lot of time to think.  I’ve spent a good bit of that time thinking about three little things.  One involved a tiny amount of time, another a rather insignificant amount of space, and a third that in comparison to so much more that was going on just doesn’t seem so big, but it was, and is:

 

#1:  If I had only looked over my shoulder before making that left hand turn into the path of a pickup truck that was passing me, none of this would have happened.  A split second of neglect has affected me for the rest of my life.

 #2:  If the pickup truck had been six inches the right, I would be dead.

 #3:  We’ll wait on that one for a while.

Too many of us assume that life is made up of a sequence of big events: birth, graduation, marriage, having children of one’s own, death.  To be sure these, and other events like them, are seismic happenings that leave the landscape of our lives changed, but the bulk of our life is not lived there.  If we picture our life as a container filled with various sized rocks, from quite large down to grains of sand, we would find that the most volume is taken up with sand and pebbles--little stuff.  I’m not saying we ought to ignore the boulders, but I fear too many of us live life in an attempt to jump from one big rock to the next.  In the process of only living "my" life looking back to the last great happening, or ahead to the next big event, I fail to appreciate the cumulative power and weight of the little things in my life.  Furthermore, as my experience demonstrates, one never knows which little thing will swell up to instantly life-altering dimensions.

 On the lovely fall day when I smashed my hip and collarbone on the side of a pickup truck, my heart, with the rest of my country was heavy.  A few days before terrorists had attacked New York, and Washington DC, killing thousands of men, women, and children.  Others had died in Pennsylvania, apparently able, at the last moment, to prevent the hijackers from crashing this plane into yet another public building, but unable to save their own lives.

 When a little girl at my church heard about my wreck, her response was, “Didn’t he look?”  No, I didn’t.  I’ve been biking for years.  I always look.  Such a little thing, yet on this occasion, as the sound of the approaching truck was masked by the noise of a departing car, that failure to look was a near-deadly, certainly costly oversight. 

 In the time since the accident, I’ve thought numerous times of the perversity of me being laid up by such a small matter, when all around me events that will fill the pages of history were transpiring.  I even felt guilty that my little-thing-inspired calamity would sidetrack others from praying about, and showing concern over the big one that was going on all around us.  I’m coming more and more to realize as I contemplate the whole matter, that I just have to leave that with the Lord.  He was not busy in conference with President Bush, when I was distracted just at the moment I needed to be paying attention.  He was not wringing His hands over the whereabouts of terrorist leaders, when flesh met steel on that country road.  He was there.  He is here.   I think “little” and “big” are concoctions of my mind, not His.  He keeps a running total of the sparrow population. He knows the number of hairs on my head. He can tell you how many times I get up and lie down (For a while now, that number has been zero).  He is intimately acquainted with all my ways, not just the “big” ones.

Perhaps there is another way of putting it. It humbles me to even type the words.  Anything that has to do with one of His children is a big thing.

 One of the first questions most of us learn to ask is, “Why?”

 So why did this happen?  I mean, I was out there trying to get some exercise.   Numerous health-care workers, right after a successful stick, have commented on my “good veins,” no doubt the result of years of aerobic activity.  But look where it has gotten me now.  Lots of folk with cholesterol laden blood, and waistlines that done-lapped a long time ago are up and about and doing their thing, while I huffed and pumped and dieted, and now am stuck in a space about the size of a baby’s playpen.  Why?

I pastor a great church.  We had just entered what I think is the greatest time of potential growth in our history.  Plans were in motion.   Things were beginning to happen.  It’s fun to get up and go to church at Covington Bible.  I didn’t even want to go on vacation, though I was planning to visit some missionaries in a couple of months.  Day after tomorrow will be the third Sunday I haven’t even been able to be at church.  I figure there will be at least that many more weeks before I get to roll or hobble in.  My participation in the mission trip is cancelled.  The disappointment compounds—the ticket is nontransferable and for me to use it later will cost a considerable amount of money.  Why?

I could go on about the incredible inconvenience it is for my wife to have an invalid husband, about how all the kindness being directed toward me could be funneled in much more profitable directions, if only I hadn’t . . . 

I find many reasons to ask, “Why?”

So, Why did this happen?

It happened because, in the words of the little girl, I didn’t look.  I’m not being flip when I say that.  God has so constructed His universe that the choices we make, the actions we take or neglect to take, the words we say, or withhold, have real consequences.  Yet, in the light of Romans 8:28, from another perspective, I have to say that this bed represents God’s will for me.  I can be sure that God watches over and cares about the little things.  Often those little things bear such incredible consequences.  Could God have prevented this accident?  Not only do I answer, “Yes,” but I am inclined to believe that on other occasions God has sovreignly, providentially, guided me away from disaster.  Not only was God in control in relation to my failure to look at its critical timing, He likewise gave the six inches that saved my life.

God has so made His universe that my actions and yours are truly significant—they matter—yet He is not wringing hands in worry over how it will all come out.  If there is one little thing in this world over which God’s sovereignty does not extend, then He is not truly Lord.  To follow the logic of the old poem, if God is not sovereign over the horseshoe nail, then He cannot be in control of the battle, the nation, or the world.

I figure on that Saturday afternoon I was about six inches from dying.  I was making a left hand turn off of the blacktop onto a dirt road.  I slowed to allow the car that was behind me pass, then I quickly stuck out my arm for a signal and started to turn.  The little pickup’s noise, must have been covered up by the sound of the car that had just passed.  When I signaled a turn he was probably already in the left lane passing me.  He almost succeeded in his attempt to miss me.  If he had gotten the truck six inches further left, I would have been badly  scared, upset at  myself for not looking, not much more.  If he had failed to get as far to the left as he did, by just six inches, I’d almost certainly be dead.

I love the Lord, and I’m looking forward to heaven, but I’m glad to say that I’m still here.  Call me carnal if you wish, but I have a wife to love, work to do, sons to watch continue in their growth, grandkids to love and spoil.  I’m very glad for that six inches that spared my life.  I enjoy my food.  I’m incredibly impressed at the kindness of my wife and others.  I guess you could say I’ve gained a new appreciation for little things.

Really, though, that day is no different than any other.  God is not like the airbag in the steering wheel of an automobile—the only time it comes out is in time of real danger.  Rather it is just that God’s care for me was clearly evident that day.  Paul told the Athenians that “in [God] we live, and move, and exist.” (Acts 17:28)  Jesus taught that our life is not maintained by the food we consume, but by the word of God.  (Matt. 4:4)  David pointed out that his times are in the Lord’s hand. (Psalm 31:15)  Amid the twin-tower like destruction of ancient Jerusalem, Jeremiah saw that it was God’s mercy, God’s mercy renewed each day, that kept us all from being consumed.. (Lamentations 3:22-23)  Indeed, Paul points out that not just we, but all the creation is held together by the power of God.  (Colossians 1:17)  Not only in the sense of my creation, but moment by moment, I am because God in His providence makes it so.  It was not only that day that he gave space to live.  He does so everyday.

 

In a morphine fog I was talking to my physician.  He had in his hand the paper that would give him permission to operate on my bashed-up hip.  There were all kinds of really discouraging “could happen”s on that sheet:  You could develop a rupture at the site of the incision.  It might not work, we might have to do a total hip replacement, etc., etc.   I thought about a man I know who recently came to this point concerning a surgical procedure, and just said, “No.”   I understood perfectly.

 More than anything else on my Doctor’s list of horrors, a statement about a little nerve grabbed my attention.  Sometimes the nerve that allows one to pick up his foot (pull your toes up) is damaged, and one has a “drop foot.”  I was told if that happened I’d have to wear a brace.  Somehow that one really got to me.  Visions of special shoes and walking sticks and me walking “funny,” filled my mind.  “I’m not sure I can bear that.”  I thought.  But it was clear, even in my less than alert state, that this was what I ought to do, so I signed.

“Mr. Merrell, I’m going to give you the drug to put you to sleep now.  The next thing you know you’ll be in the post-op.”  I nodded and for all practical purposes died.

I blinked my eyelids closed and opened them to an intensity of awareness that I had never known.  It was as if a pure white strobe light was firing at a million times a second.  One flash was the ceiling of the post-op, the next some image from my memory, then to a dream scene, back to post-op, more rapidly than I can possible explain.  “Where am I?”   “Am I dead?”   “Is this heaven?” This isn't the way Doc. Pinter (my Theology Prof.) described it, but I must be in heaven. 

“Pastor Merrell,”

 I looked at the foot of my bed and saw Laura.  She’s a nurse, a friend of my son.  I don’t know what else she said, but her presence pulled me back to reality.  My focus lowered to my left foot.  My brain sent the signal and I watched the toe wag up and down.

Thank God for little things.

The Christmas Program from . . .

A table of contents of stories from Hogback Ridge, featuring Parson Smedley 

An Introduction to Hogback Ridge and Parson Smedley

The Christmas Program from . . .

When Smedley went out to saddle-up Sairee, the sky had an angry look about it. Smedley’s dark mood kept him from paying much attention to the weather and prevented Flora Jean from pressing her objection. “He’s been out in worse,” she thought. “I reckon that mule’s got sense enough to get both of ‘em home, even if he doesn’t.” As Smedley rode up the lane, Flora Jean said a prayer for the man she loved. “The fact is,” she thought, “I can use some time without a man underfoot. I’ve got bakin’ to do.”

The top of Peter’s Knob, was the best place for a man to clear his head and Smedley’s head sure needed clearing. Taking the bridle off his mule—he figured this head-clearing would take a while--he gave her a clear warning, “Don’t you go wanderin’ off, Sairee. I done had enough messed up business to last me well into the New Year.” Sairee twitched her ears like she always did when the Parson talked to her. She spoke mule fluently and she had learned enough human to get along. Her vocabulary was limited but she understood tone quite well, and the Parson’s tone was clear. Besides, there was late-season grass on the knob and a hollow in the rock held some water from yesterday’s rain. Smedley was glad she stayed put. He only wished he could talk his thoughts into doing the same.

“Lord, that was the absolute worstest program I ever saw, heard of, or ‘magined.” Smedley took turns praying, pacing, staring at the darkening sky, and having conversations with upwards of half a dozen people, none of whom were present. One of them was Rev. Loggins, the Pastor who had taught Smedley so much about preaching, leading a flock, and loving on folks. Rev. Loggins surprised Smedley when he said, “Sounds like it was the Christmas program from the place of Divine eternal retribution.”

“Exactly,” Smedley replied, “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Chuckling for a moment at the thought that he had, in fact, said it himself.

Smedley had felt ill at ease about the program for the last week or so. Flora Jean had tried to reassure him about it. She was almost always right, and she never lied to her husband, but she sure missed this one! Smedley still couldn’t lay a finger on what had troubled him. It was, “just something in my gizzard,” he said. His concern had led to him checking on everything. “Ever-thing looks good,” he had mused, but still . . .”

Missy Bedletter and Kora Jo Danning had done a bang-up job. They wrote up the play themselves and had Opal mimeograph copies down at the school. They’d brow-beaten their husbands into gathering up the children and bringing them to the practices in their buggy and wagon. They found out Horace Smithers was home from Erkin College and corralled him into playing the music. He made that old wheezy pump organ sound like one of those five-acre pipe organs at one of the rich folk’s churches down in Charlotte. They even got the Hogback Ridge Quilting Society to make the costumes. One of the robes was more patches than what was patched, but Missy just named that character “Joseph” and wrote in a line about his robe being just like his name-sake.

In short, in spite of the Parson’s doubts it looked like Flora Jean was right, “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, and then added with a tone like she’d just held the Rook to be sure she won the last trick, “there’s nothin’ you can do about it anyhow.”

The debacle—Smedley had just read that word in a book and thought it fit well—started right at the beginning. Edna McClosky had insisted at the last minute that her grandson, L. Buxton McClosky, who had just arrived from Chicago for a Christmas visit, have a part in the play. Missy and Kora Jo had tried to put her off, and truth be told, it didn’t look like young McClosky was all that interested anyhow, but Edna insisted, and she was the best insister anywhere in these parts. They gave Buxton two lines. He was to welcome the crowd at the beginning and tell them cookies were waiting at the end of the program. Altogether, all he had was about fifteen words to remember, but he didn’t remember.

Dressed in the Windy City’s finest L. Buxton made his way to center stage, and just stood and grinned. After a time, Edna began to mouth his lines for him, but to no avail. “Never has so little, been forgotten so thoroughly, by one so well-encouraged,” Smedley said to his invisible guests. Finally, Smedley had stood up and welcomed the folk, to which L. Buxton replied, for all to hear, “Yeah, what he said.”

It was downhill from there.

A. J. Smith’s lamb that was as “gentle as a kitten,” suddenly became as wild as a bobcat. It took ten minutes to catch it. Instead of the shepherds abiding in the field, they laughed on the stage.

Rodney Pickens had that look in his eye—you know the look that says, “I’m up to something.” When the wisemen showed up, much to Missy and Kora Jo’s horror, the look had spread to his whole face. They knew they’d better do something, but before they could, he and his two companions broke into song, “We three kings of orient are, trying to smoke a loaded seegar.” All three wisemen, suddenly turned into wise guys, whipped out what looked like real stogies and yelled, “Boom.”

Three mothers mortified and angry, hauled the three not so wise boys outside for a serious conversation, which everyone in the congregation heard clearly. The summary is, “Whack, whack, whack, to which the suddenly contrite boys, replied, “Ow, OW, wail!” Herod winced at every “Whack,” causing his crown to come loose and fall to the floor. It fell in something the errant lamb had left behind.

That was when Smedley got up and did some serious ad-libbing. He was pretty sure nobody heard a word he said. He was even more confident that that was just as well. Smedley was actually glad that L. Buxton not only forgot his closing line as thoroughly as he had his first but also forgot to even to step out of the shadow where he’d been instructed to wait. Finally, Kora Jo, much flustered, stood up and ended the program as well as she could. “Thank you and good night.” The two program directors and Smedley weren’t in any mood for Cookies, even though some of them were Smedley’s favorite, peanut butter. So, the crowd just left, boys trying to stifle chuckles, mother giving the look that said, “Don’t even think of it,” many heads wagging, and one forlorn parson looking for a place to hide.

The sky had gotten darker and the air colder, as Smedley thought, prayed and carried both ends of the multiple conversations. He was so involved with all that was in his head that he didn’t hear the automobile crunching up the gravel road. At first, he thought the voice behind him was one of the characters who had shared the saddle with Smedley on the trip up the crooked road. But none of the people in Smedley’s head called him Reverend. “Reverend Smedley,” the voice said, and then Smedley heard the unmistakable sound of teeth chattering.

All, at once Smedley realized that it was really getting cold. Snow was almost certain to fall. As he turned to see where the very real voice and chattering were coming from, he saw a man, maybe in his thirties, dressed in the garb of a banker or some such, no top coat, no hat or gloves, and shoes that clearly weren’t up to keeping ones feet warm on this blustery December Day.

“Brother, what are you doing out on a day like this, dressed as you are?” As Smedley spoke he grabbed an old blanket he kept rolled up and tied to Sairee’s saddle, “for emergencies.” The man wrapped himself in the blanket and recovered a bit before he answered.

“I just drove up from the Mile Long Bridge.”

Smedley eyed the car and noticed it was a touring car. “That’s, what, five miles from here? No wonder you’re cold. Why would you go to Mile Long Bridge on a day like this, and why would go dressed like you are? Didn’t you know you’d be froze afore you got back home?”

Smedley wondered because the Mile Long Bridge wasn’t a bridge you could drive on. It was a swinging bridge. It was nowhere near a mile long, but when the wind was whistling up Wildcat Gap, like it would today, it seemed at least that long. There were a couple of hard-scrabble farm families who lived on Freeman’s Ridge who used the bridge to get back and forth. Other than some hunters, nobody else ever crossed it. Clearly, the cold stranger who had suddenly appeared was neither farmer nor hunter. What could have compelled him to go to such a place on such a day?

“I wasn’t planning to go back home. I went there to jump off.” The stranger said, flatly.

The very thought sent shivers up Smedley’s spine. “What in the world for?” Smedley asked the stranger.

“This morning I showed up at the insurance office, where I work, like I always do. The boss met me at my desk. I knew what he had to say, before he said it. “This just isn’t working out,” he said. “I need you to pack up your belongings. See Molly,” she’s the accountant, “before you go, she’ll settle up with you.” My wife’s pregnant. I’m behind on my mortgage. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“Well, I’m sure glad you changed your mind. That jump would have made you a goner for sure and that wouldn’t a helped yer wife a bit, but if you don’t mind me asking, what caused you to change your mind?”

“It was something you said last night.”

“Something I said,” Smedley said, amazed and wondering out loud. “What’d I say?”

“You said something about how last night didn’t work out the way you planned. You said, “Life’s like that, ain’t it? But here’s what’s fer sure. Make sure you hold onto this.” Then you read some Bible verse, something sixteen.”

“John 3:16,” Smedley said, not because he remembered, but because he knew that’s what he hoped he had said.

“Yeah, that’s it. God so loved, that He gave His Son. I was try’n to figure out which side of the bridge to jump off of. Ain’t that crazy? ‘N I thought a that. Kinda seemed like the wind was a talkin’ to me, howlin’ at me really, “Siiiixxxteeeen.” Anyhow, I figured if you could say something about love after that mess, maybe I oughta give things another try. I saw yer mule as I was drivin’ by I hoped it was you, so I pulled . . .”

“I don’t think I saw you, last night.” Smedley interrupted.

“Nah, I came in late ‘n sat in the back. My nephew was one of the shepherds. I got there on my way home from work.”

The icy blast that sent a shiver down Smedley’s spine brought him out of his head-shaking wonderment. “Well, say, what is your name?”

“Pete, Pete Dumford.”

“Well, Pete, if we don’t get you off’n this knob, soon, it’ll be April afore we get this car down & we’ll both be plum froze. We need ta talk some more, but not here. Tell ya what. You keep that blanket wrapped around ya ‘n head on down this road the way you was goin. Go right at the fork. My house is the first place on the right.” As he spoke Smedley wrote something on a scrap of paper he’d fished out of his pocket, with the stub of a pencil he always carried. “Give this to my wife, Flora Jean, tell her I’ll be down directly.”

It was way past bedtime, but Smedley just sat rocking, enjoying the warm fire and the satisfaction that came from the half-dozen peanut butter cookies, he’d eaten while he talked with Pete. “Lord, who-da thunk. . .” Smedley’s thoughts were interrupted by the hand on his shoulder. Flora Jean enjoyed the warmth of the fire and greater warmth in her heart for a moment. Smedley felt the warmth from the fire soak into his bones, and the reflection of the flames in Flora Jean's eyes warmed Smedley’s soul.

After a time she smiled and said, “I told you it would be all right.”

And it was.

 

Other Stuff Table of Contents

Other Stuff, Table of Contents:

• Joy in Washing a Car
  A little reflection on my grandson becoming a man.
• Irene's Journey
  This is rough.  My mom wrote a summary of her life.  I just scanned the pages and put them in order.  It is a lovely account, though, well worth the trouble of dealing with the unpolished manuscript.

• THREE LITTLE THINGS WITH LARGE IMPACT
  I wrote this in September or October of 2001, not long after 9/11. 
  The story is about an event that nearly ended my life and
  three little parts that of that event that continue inform my life.

Tales from the Hogback, #13, Epilogue

EPILOGUE

I almost missed it.  To tell you the truth I'm not sure why I read the obituaries that day--I usually don't.  When I saw the name "James Robert Smedley" I just had to wonder.  It was he.  I had to look a couple of times; I'd never seen him dressed up, but clearly it was he.

I had listened to his tales over countless cups of coffee, yet I didn't even know where he had lived.  I thought, maybe a little selfishly, that I could find out about him from those who attended the funeral, that I could finally find out just where on the map Hog Back Ridge was located, that I could put a date to the beginning and end of Parson Smedley's ministry.

I guess it was at the funeral that I changed my mind.  The funeral director had asked me if I would mind helping to carry the casket.  No formal pallbearers had been selected, and the staff of the funeral home and I were about the only ones there who didn't look like candidates for the next funeral. 

What if he just made it all up--a lonely old man creating a past for himself and populating it with creatures of his imagination?  Maybe he was Smedley, Jim Bob, the preacher’s lanky son, but humility prevented him from revealing it.  Or, maybe there was no Hog Back Ridge, no little meeting house with a stop sign plugging the hole in the cellar, no mule-riding parson named Smedley.

I guess the whole thing had become too much a part of me.  I couldn't stand the thought of finding out that it wasn't that way at all.  Maybe when I'm older and braver I'll do the journalistically responsible thing, but for now all that I know about my friend is contained on a faded obituary that I carry in my wallet.  And, a bunch of wonderful tales that I carry in my heart.

Tales from the Hogback #12, Blue Ribbon: Rewards, True & False

REWARDS, TRUE & FALSE

Really there were much easier ways to get to the Jefferson County Fair, but as Smedley walked through the woods down the big mountain he was thoroughly enjoying himself.  He could have waited and gone with Flora Jean on the Jones's wagon.  It was piled high with quilts and carefully wrapped jars of prize preserves not to mention Joneses, but there was still plenty of room for Smedley.  For that matter he could have ridden Sairee.  In fact Smedley felt a little bad that he hadn't brought her.  He always felt a little foolish for thinking so, but he was convinced that she enjoyed the trip to the fair.  "Reckon she enjoys bein’ with her kind as much as we do with our'n." he reasoned.  Even if he was determined to walk he could have walked on the road and avoided the briars and occasional rough places, not to mention the spring branches he had to cross.

The parson prayed as he walked along.  Like a child at the dinner table he prayed with his eyes wide open thanking the Lord for whatever met his gaze.  "Lord, I thank you for the blue sky, and the clouds with the promise of rain.  But Lord I thank thee thet it ain't rainin' today, cuz it sher would ruin this beautiful time.  I thank thee Lord fer givin' that song to Mr. Bob White over in the thicket an' fer sendin' that gray squirrel to gather nuts along as I'm travlin' to town.”

It was a grand day, and Smedly, who was "about peopled out," was enjoying it immensely.  Just enjoyment, though, wasn't what motivated him to take this route to the fair; every once in a while he would spy evidence of the real reason he came this way.  No one else would have noticed, but here and there Smedley would notice the print of a cloven hoof in the soft ground.  A few times he saw some hair caught on a briar.

"Looky there," Smedley crowed to the crow in the tree, when he came to a patch of torn of up ground, "Looks like Mahershalalhashbaz is living right up to his name.  Sorry Mr. Squirrel, Ol' Maher got some a' yer acerns and ches'nuts, but if it's any consolation to ya, the hog thet et your dinner is the finest hog in Jefferson County.  He's gonna win a blue ribbon fer my boy."

Mahershalalhashbaz was the hog Jim Bob Smedley had raised.  He had hauled slop from three different neighbors to keep him supplied.  The Smedleys didn't have the money to buy corn to fatten the hog so every evening Jim Bob would take him to the woods where there was a good supply of chestnuts and let him root and eat his fill.  It was while watching him hasten to the spoil that Smedley suggested his name.*  Everybody that saw the hog told Jim Bob that he was a shoo-in for the big prize at the fair. 

Since the Smedley's didn't have a wagon and since the hog was tame as a dog--better than many--the Smedley clan came up with a plan for getting the boy and pig to the fair.  They'd leave a day early and just meander along.  Maher would have ample opportunity to feed and young Jim Bob would have plenty of time to get him all spiffed up once they got there.  It was kinda' an odd way to get a hog to the fair, but it worked out all right.

The next day the activity at the Smedley campsite began early.  Flora Jean had to get her quilt to the judging, and the younger children had new friends to make and adventures to get into.  Jim Bob & Smedley set in to make sure that Mahershalalhashbaz didn't live up to the reputation of his kind.  They washed him and cleaned his hooves with a scrub brush.  The ring in his nose shone in the morning sun.  It seemed the big porker must have known that something important was up, because he put up with it all pretty well, for a hog anyhow. 

By the time the cleaning operations were completed a considerable group of on-lookers had gathered to admire this fine specimen of swinedom.  Smedley and Jim Bob were particularly interested to see Jake Reardon admiring the Smedley entry.  Jake was the farm manager for the Widow Winstead, about the richest person, and owner of the finest farm, in the county, maybe the state, for all the parson and his son knew.  Jake had a reputation for having an eye for stock, second to none.

"Fine lookin' hog you got there, boy,"  he said to Jim Bob, with a wink.

"Yes sir," Jim Bob replied, trying to look calm.  But when Jake was out of sight Jim Bob couldn't resist slapping his dad on the back and hollering out loud.  "Didja hear that?  Didja hear what Jake said about Maher?"

"Now, jest calm yerself." Smedley admonished, though he was about as excited as his son, "It ain't over 'til it's over."  I'll stay here & keep ol' Maher outa' trouble.  You go & git yerself cleaned up so you kin show him."

When that boy and that hog left for the show ring there wasn't a prouder man on earth than Parson Smedley, and he had a right to be.

Smedley was used to seeing the typical mountain hogs that existed on what slop was left from the family table, which the way most folk lived in those parts wasn't much, and what acorns and chestnuts they could root out in the area available to them.  They often had worms, and were just, well scrawny.  The beasts that met Smedley's gaze at the fair were gigantic, but for size and form none were the equal to the animal standing next to his son. 

"Ladiiiies and Gent-le-men," the chairman of the county fair committee intoned.  "I am glad to recognize as the judge of our swine competition the honorable Rueben C. Galepoke." 

The crowd tried to suppress their shock.  Rueben was the County Commissioner and it was appropriate that he receive some honor at the fair, but the only thing that he knew about pork was that ham and eggs were good for breakfast. 

Smedley's heart sank.  But as each handler brought their entry into the ring Smedley noticed something that revived hope in his breast.  As Rueben circled each hog, pretending to look at it, he would glance up at Jake Reardon, who was sitting next to his boss in the front row.  A slight nod or lift of the eyebrows from Jake would follow some of the glances while at other times Jake's face showed no response.  After he circled each hog Rueben made marks on a piece of paper he was carrying.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the chairman again held forth, "our honorable judge, Commissioner Galepoke has chosen the following entrants as finalists in the competition."  As the names were read from Rueben's notes the crowd murmured its approval.  "Maybe the licker dealer, turned politician knows more about hogs than we thought." one gnarled old farmer commented.  Now Smedley was sure.  Jake Reardon was the real judge in this competition and now hope burned bright once more in the parson's heart.

"Quiet, quiet," the chairman hollered, as you know, by long standing tradition, Winstead Farms has made a standing offer of one hundred dollars for the blue ribbon hog in this competition.  Mrs. W. W. Winstead has asked me to announce that in honor of the Fiftieth Anniversary of Winstead Farms, founded by the late W. W. Winstead, that this year Winstead Farms is offering two hundred dollars for the winning hog."  Near bedlam broke loose in that arena, but finally the crowd settled for the big conclusion. 

Rueben followed the same procedure for the five finalists that he had earlier.  Smedley lifted his gaze from Jake Reardon only enough to see which hog Reuben was circling.  Jake's weather beaten face betrayed no emotion, until Rueben circled Mahershalalhashbaz.  Just the slightest lift of an eyebrow said it.  Rueben officiously made some marks on his paper and started back to the chairman when someone else caught his eye.  Sam Morrison the editor of the Mt. Elmo Star, looked Reuben right in the eye and patted something he had stuck in his jacket pocket.

After conferring with the chairman for a moment Reuben took another look at the hogs.  The behavior from Jake Reardon and Sam Morrison was just as before.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the winner of the yellow ribbon is Jasper Peters, for his hog Bluebell.  The winner of the Red Ribbon is James Robert Smedley, for his hog, Maher . . ."

Before the announcer could finish the name the crowd sighed, people looked at one another in wonderment and began to murmur, most didn't even hear when the winner was announced as Elmer Morrison of Mt. Elmo for his hog El Prezedente'.

The trip back home was much different than the trip down the mountain of just a few days before.  Jim Bob was trying not to cry and trying not to let any one see when he couldn't help it.  Smedley was wondering, "Why a man who runs his mouth fer a livin' cain't think a nuthin' to say to ease his own boys hurt?"  Flora Jean with her usual skill was keeping everything running along.

Life got back to normal after a while.  Oh sometimes Flora Jean and Smedley would think about that $200, but they tried not to.

They were reminded about what really matters a few days later by two items of news.  Mrs. W. W. Winstead died.  "Says here in the paper thet all the heirs is in an uproar over whose gonna git what.  The Lawyer came n' locked up the whole business 'til they kin git it sorted out."

"An' looky here, Says Reuben C. Galepoke was arrested last week fer sellin' illegal whiskey in his store."

The Winstead estate was tied up in court for years.  Jim Bob had forgotten all about Mahershalalhashbaz when it was finally settled.  When all the papers were finally cleaned out a letter was found in Mrs. Winstead's old roll top desk.  Eventually it found its way to Private First Class Robert Smedley, Fort Campbell Kentucky.

Dear James,

For over twenty five years it has been the practice of Winstead Farms to pay top dollar for the finest hog produced in Jefferson County.  My foreman informs me that though I have purchased the hog that won the blue ribbon, I have not obtained the best.  If you will be good enough to bring your animal by, my bookkeeper will write you a check for $200.

Sincerely,

Mrs. W. W. Winstead

Jim Bob just smiled.  "That was mighty expensive bacon we et."

[* The name of Jim Bob’s hog is taken from the book of Isaiah, 8:3.  It very roughly translates as one who is quick to grab up what he can.]

Previous Tale  --  Epilogue

Growing Pains Table of Contents

Growing Pains

• One Out of Four
• Suck It Up
• The View From Behind
• A New Card In My Roledex
• Run Kelly Run
• Running On Prom Night

Hogback Ridge Table of Contents:

TALES FROM THE HOGBACK

• Prologue
• DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH
• A Slow Ride
• THE STOPPER
• Politically Speaking
• Nobody
• The Big Meetin'
• Faithful
• A Strange Perfume
• Smedley's Christmas Adventure
• How Lightnin' Jones Went Down and Up at the Same Time
• Blue Ribbon: Rewards, True and False
• The Christmas Program from . . .
• Epilogue