A Mule, a Pond, and a Christmas Gift

I don’t curse much anymore. Using them words ain’t near as much fun as it was when I was younger. Maybe I’m older and wiser, maybe not. Probably much more it’s just because I don’t like people judging me by the way I talk. About the only thing that can make me use them words these days is a mule. Even thinking about a mule can get my dander up. They are ornery, stubborn, smelly creatures that just ain’t natural to begin with, being a cross between a donkey and a horse. It’s plain to see they ain’t blessed by God neither. That’s why most of them come out sterile. He knows they shouldn’t be passing on their cussedness.


I didn’t always think this-a-way. Time was I’d be excited to get to work with any kind of stock, but that was before I worked with mules. I should have listened to my uncle. He said they was talked about sorely in the Bible over in Psalms 32:9, “Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding.”

Said it was because they was so blasted cantankerous that they was held up as an example of what we shouldn’t be. Why when God had all them other animals like donkeys, and weasels, and skunks, and snakes; snakes hell they is so low they don’t have no legs. Preacher said that was because of the temptation in the Garden of Eden. I wonder what they looked like before he took their legs away. Did them snakes have long legs like a giraffe, or did they scoot along like a centipede with a hunderd legs? Or skunks, now I know them things just use their smell as protection, but Lord do they stink. Why if humans smelled like skunks I reckin there wouldn’t be no children made at all. I do know that the Indian that lived down near Cherokee Lake had one that he took care of when it was a little thing and got lost from its Mother. That was the cutest thing. Followed him around like a little kitten. For that matter what about fleas and chiggers? A flea is the nastiest of afflictions. But if there is one thing that should be God forsaken it is a chigger. Those things get under your skin in the most embarrassing of places. I got em on my private parts once’t when I was picking blackberries and believe me, that wasn’t no fun. I couldn’t scratch nowhere in public and there ain’t nothing that itches like a chigger. No, of all them other things God could have used as ‘samples’ he said, “Don’t be like a MULE!”

I’m sorry, here I am getting all carried away and you don’t even have nary idea at all why I’m getting so riled up. No idea at all lessen you’ve had a mule that is. If you have, then you know exactly what it is I’m talking about and will enjoy this story as justifying of your hatred. If you ain’t never had one, well listen up close cause by the time I’m done you’ll know why they is such wretched creatures. You’ll also understand why even though I despise them like the dickens I owe ‘em so much. Sometimes I just don’t know what to think about them animals.

Some of my fondest recollections are cold weather ones, even though cold weather was tough weather on the farm. There was pipes to be thawed out in the milk barn before we could commence milking and sometimes that took near on an hour. There was straw that had to be spread out in the barn where we locked the cows up after milking. We fastened them up at night cause they didn’t have much sense and would stand outside until the milk dripping off their teats froze. Last thing at evening we ran them up in the stock barn and fed them hay and closed the doors while they was chewing away. If you didn’t spread the straw out the muck would get so deep in there you couldn’t even walk. Come spring we spread the mess out on the fields as fertilizer. People go on and on about recycling and composting these days like they discovered it. Why we been doing it on the farm longer than they been alive.

We kept the mules up during the winter too because they wasn’t no smarter than the cows. They got a little brain for an animal that big, I looked it up in the cyclopedia once and their brain ain’t no bigger than a lemon. A monkey’s brain is bigger than that! So every evening them mules had to be led out to the pond to drink. The pond was about a half mile from the barn. To git there you went down a lane through the woods that Grandpa said had been a stagecoach road way back before he was born.

The year I turned thirteen Dad give me the task of tak’un them mules to drink. They was two of them, Bell and Kate; and only one of them had to be led, ole Kate would follow Bell down and back pretty as you please. But now Bell she was different, she wouldn’t follow nowhere or no one. She was the one I put the halter and lead on every night. She was the bigger of the two and I had to stand up on the feed trough to get to her head. You’d think she would lower it some so she could get a drink, but no, that animal would raise up until her noggin bumped on the loft above and you didn’t dare open the stall door until you had the lead on her. She’d run right over you to git out otherwise. One time I didn’t git it on her head good and she shook it off; took off like a cat running from a water hose, a jumping and kicking her hind legs up in the air, look’en like a year old colt. It took us two hours to git that mule put back up.

Dad didn’t really give me much instruction on what to do, just said, “You can ride them or you can walk em, but if’n you ride don’t make em run and be sure and slide off before you get back to the barn. Bell won’t stop none to let you off and will run you right smack into the timber above the barn door if you don’t.”

That mule’s back was a lot higher than I could swing my leg up to. Heck it was higher than I could jump. So every night after I got the halter on I led her over to a big rock that laid up beside the barn on the south side and used it to boost myself up. I had to do it sorta quick like. If I didn’t jump right on she would turn her butt end around and start pulling on the reins like a hound pup does when you are breaking ‘em to lead. Cept’n she ain’t a dog, were’nt young and was a sight bigger. So I got pretty good at leading her over to the jumping rock and swinging my leg over in one move. It was sort of like learning to ride a bicycle, felt hard at first but soon got so easy I never even thought about it.

I guess you’d say we both got educated. She learned that she could chew on that bit all she wanted and it wasn’t going to break in two and I learned that riding a mule bareback wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as riding a horse. A mule’s got a backbone that sticks up like all the ridges in the Appalachian Mountains and the way they walk makes that back bone rub you side to side. They tell me in the old days that men who carried loads into the mining camps rode mules cause they was so sure footed. But they better have rode them animals with saddles cause if you was on one more than an hour or so they would rub holes in your pants and ever bit o’ flesh of’n your butt. That along with me only being thirteen and her having a wide backside meant when I rode my legs stuck out like I was a three legged milk stool; and gait, there ain’t no gait to a mule, they sort of pound along like they’s cracking walnuts with ever step.

By December I was used to the gait and the cold and the mule. I guess my butt hide had got a little tougher too. I learned to sit higher up on the mules back, up almost on its neck so my legs weren’t splayed out over half the state. Besides, I had my mind on other things anyways. It was Christmas time and I was hoping to get a twenty two rifle and I was going to be in the living nativity scene at the church the Sunday night before Christmas. We had one every year on the weekend before and this year was special as that Sunday was also Christmas Eve, not to mention my first to take part. There was a kid’s play afterwards in the church and I had done that before but never been in the grown up play. I was getting to because they wanted a donkey in the scene and Mr. Page, that used to own one, didn’t have one no more. So, I was going to hold Bell beside the manager scene. Hopefully no one would think it was too funny we had a mule instead of a donkey. If they did I bet Preacher would give em a look. I wasn’t excited none about having to hold the mule, but I still got to dress up and wear a robe like all the other grownups. Mom had bought me a brown one that was too big, but she cut off the bottom and washed it a bunch so it raveled and looked all worn out. When you wrapped it around me and I wore the beard that they glued on my face I looked like a short’ish grownup. Besides, nobody else in my Sunday School Class was getting to be in the grown up play. They all thought it was pretty cool.

We practiced every night in the week leading up until Christmas Eve and I was surprised at how cold it was once the sun went down. Mom told me just to wear my jeans underneath my robe and that helped. Bell was pretty good the first night, I guess it was the newness of it all, she was the other nights too and I figured we had this licked.

I was running late the night of the play and it was all my fault. A light snow had been falling all day, not enough to cover the roads, but there was plenty enough on the ground. I had gone over to my friend Jackson’s for lunch after church and then we got busy building a fort out of snow. Before I knowed it Mom was calling saying Dad wanted to know where I was. I rode my bicycle home and it was already getting dark so I didn’t waste no time.

I’ve never seen that mule so stubborn, every time I reached up to put the halter on old Bell she raised her head to the ceiling and then shook it side to side like one of them polar bears at the Knoxville Zoo. Finally I got the halter on her and then when I took her over to the rock she twisted around half sideways and I missed her entirely when I went to throw my leg over. I fell flat on my back beside that rock and the breath went out of me with a wushhhhh! The snow pushed up under my coat and shirt right onto my bare back, sending a shiver down my spine and making me jittery all over.

I was really running late by the time I got on her back and started out for the pond so I decided to give her a little nudge. In the back of my mind I could hear Dad’s say’en, “Don’t run her none.” But I figured by now I was good nuff a rider to stay on her back so I kicked her hard with my heels. Made no difference, it was if I wasn’t even there so when we came up under the old hickory tree I reached up and jerked off a limb to use as a switch. Once’t, twice, I thrashed her on the hips, nothing happened so the third time I brought it down on her backside as hard as I could. She took off like greased lightning. I grabbed a big hand full of mane or I would have slid right off her back. I dropped the reins and held on with both hands as I laid down low on her back, partly to keep from sliding off and partly to keep the limbs from smacking me in the face as we galloped down the lane.

`When we got to the edge of the pond that damned mule didn’t even slow down but went traipsing right out into the cold water. I raised my feet high up on its back to keep them from getting wet and waited as she drunk her fill. I kept trying to reach the reins but each time I reached she shook and when she shook I darned near slid off. So I just left well enough alone after a while. Then she did something I sure never expected. She laid down right in that cold stinking pond. I jumped off to the side and even though it only came up to my chest I thought I was going to drown before I got my feet up under me. I got a mouthful when I first went in and could taste that muddy mess. It was gritty in my teeth. I spit and sputtered trying to get the taste out, but my mouth felt like a cat had laid down in it and spent the night. Man it was colder than I don’t know what. Cold enough to make a muskrat shake I bet. As soon as she had me off her back she started running up the hill away from the barn. I took after her as soon as I realized what was going on.

Bell knew exactly how close to let me get before running on a few steps. She’d run a little bit and then stop, wait’en on me to reach down, then take agin off as soon as I was inches from the reins. I chased her around the pond twice before I finally got her hemmed in at the corner of the fence. I could hardly hold the reins my hands were shaking so bad, and I lit in to her with every cuss word I had ever heard. I might even have made up a few I was so mad. My teeth were chattering so hard I sounded like a squirrel chew’en on hickory nuts and I was shaking and shivering all over. It was a miracle I was able to get back to the house. I tied Bell to the fence post while I went in to get changed.

I didn’t want Dad to know nothing about what had been going on. I slowly inched the back door open and slid quite as a church mouse down the hallway toward the stairs that led to my room in the attic. I had just taken the first step when I heard Dad’s voice coming in from the kitchen, “Better get a shower before you put your clothes on. I can smell you coming all the way in here. And if I ever hear you using the language you was using up at the pond agin I aim to put the switch on you like you was using on that mule.”

That was when I knowed I hadn’t got away with nothing. Dad had been watching the whole time. I didn’t have to wonder none why he didn’t see I was hav’en trouble, why he didn’t help me catch that mule. He knowed I had been running her and figgered it was a lesson that needed learn’en.

I wasn’t none too sure that night how that old mule was going to act. Bell sure had been the devil up till then and when I got back out to where I had tied her to the fence post she was a snort’en and carrying on like she was loco, stomp’en her front foot down in the dirt. I untied her and she took right off. Here we went, up toward the church, me hold’en on for dear life. I was afeared the whole time she was going to git it in her head to take off agin and me knowing that when it really comes down to it a mule is a lot stronger than a thirteen year old boy. But when we got up to the nativity scene she settled down calm as a sleep’en baby; stood there as still as a cow wait’en on sweet feed. I knowed she was just thinking up some other kind of mischief though cause she kept look’en at me through the corner of her eye. I swear I think she was a laugh’en cause her lips kept curl’en up and she was grin’en just like she was a chewing on saw briar. She was the devil. I was sure of it. If not the devil she was one of the devil’s angels a sent down here to tempt me to cuss’en.

Dad and Mom wasn’t in the nativity scene cause they was the directors. They were in charge every year and decided who got to be who. I didn’t always agree with their pickin’, but Dad said it wasn’t no popularity contest and I better hush up cause he could always get somebody else to hold the mule. I guess the ones I had the most trouble with was who they chose to be Mary and Joseph. He named Terry Bittle to be Joseph and Terry was just about the meanest thing in the whole church. He was eighteen and had a red Dodge Charger that he raced at the drag strip every Saturday night. He kept the tires for it in the back of the store down at the highway that the Bacon brothers owned. Story was he had something on them both and told them if his Dad got word of what he was doing he’d tell. I don’t know why he was so vexed, his Pop never came to church and I couldn’t imagine he was none too worried about what his boy was up to him being eighteen and all.

And then there was Jenny. Jenny was the one they named to play the Holy Virgin. Jenny was as pretty as April sunrise. Although she was a couple of years older than I was, I’d been sweet on her for as long as I knowed what men and women was all about, which had been a while. Growing up on a farm and all, you learn’t these things just by watching what the farm critters was up to. But Jenny never paid me no mind even though we all knew she had kissed just about every boy in church but me. They tell me she even kissed Jimmy Larson once’t. I hadn’t never seen Jimmy without he had a chew of tobacco in his mouth and if’n she’d kiss him I couldn’t figger why she never had kissed me.

Old Pud was one of the wise men. Preacher says that the wise men were actually kings in their countries. Them coming such a long way to see Baby Jesus and bring him all those expensive gifts was their way of saying he was the King of Kings. I couldn’t see Pud being king of nothing unless it was a whiskey bottle.

Pud took care of the church, cleaning the building and mowing the cemetery in the summer when it was need’en it. He’d been throwed out of the church for drink’en, must’a been ten times already, but they kept vote’n him back. I think Preacher would have thrown him out for good if he wasn’t so handy at keep’en the old coal furnace going in the winter time. Dad said wasn’t no one as good at stok’en up a fire as Pud was. I think anyone could have done it if’n they wanted to, but they kept bring’en Pud back just cause no one wanted to carry the clinkers out and climb into the coal bin at 5 o’clock on Sunday morning. Last time they had to “church” him they had found him passed out in the coal bin. The door on the furnace was wide open and smoke had filled up the whole building. I reckin it was a miracle the church didn’t catch on far and burn down that time. They probably would have put him on the road for good, but he come back the very next Sunday and said he had him a dream about the fires of hell a lick’en at this feet and he was given up the drink for good. With a testimony like that I reckin Preacher had to take him back.

Between think’en about all the things that was go’en on in my head and keep’en my eye on Jenny I didn’t even notice where we was in the Christmas story. Dad was read’en the Christmas story. He had bought a version from the Bible store with both the shepherds and the wise men in it that was written just for nativity scenes. I looked out from where I was standing beside the stable we had built on the hill above the church. They must have been a couple of hunderd people gathered around a listening and a watching. I don’t rightly know how many but it was for sure more than I’d ever seen in church, even on Easter. The shepherds was already standing around and the wise men was gett’en ready to lay their gifts at the feet of Baby Jesus when I heard the mule. It wasn’t only me that heard it, I knowed Dad did too cause he looked at me as if it was something I had done. He give me one of them looks that said you are in trouble boy, ain’t nothing I can do right now, but you better know you are in a heap of trouble.

Now I think we was the only two that heard it, but slowly as the wind picked up the smell I noticed even Jenny who was holding Baby Jesus was curl’en her nose up and look’en over at me. I kneed that mule in the side trying to tell her she better not be doing that no more. But I reckin that was the wrong thing to be doing cause right at that exact moment she let the biggest, most longest fart I’ve ever heard any animal let out. It seemed like an hour although I’m sure it was just a couple of minutes.

Then it started, first it was just a few people right up in front. They was trying to not laugh full out loud, but then King Pud said, “Lord have mercy, get that mule out of here afore we is af-fix-e-atated.”

When he said that the whole crowd started in a laugh’en as hard as they could. They was laugh’en harder than the year that someone put one of them crying dolls in for the Baby Jesus and as soon as the Virgin Mary picked it up it started crying to all get out. I couldn’t help being embarrassed cause they was look’en right at me as if I was the one that had done it. Dad, he walked over and muttered, “Take that mule down to the barn – NOW!”

When I got to the barn I was about to let into that mule, but I remembered what happened earlier when I took a switch to her and didn’t feel like chasing her any more that night. So I just put her up in her stall. But I didn’t give her no sweet feed as a treat like I had done the other nights that week. I went back up towards the church and by the time I got there everyone was inside a listening to the little ones singing Old Little Town of Bethlehem. I couldn’t bring myself to go in and stood in the shadows until they sung a couple more Christmas songs and I reckin they was passing out the gifts cause it got all quite.

We exchanged names in Sunday school and everyone got a gift. I was looking forward to mine that year. I didn’t know who had drawn my name, but they had raised the amount to spend to five dollars which was twice’t what we spent the year before. Instead I had just about made my mind up to go on home when Jenny came out the front door of the church and called my name, “Walter, Walter Huggins.”

She hadn’t never called my name before, least not my full name anyways. I still didn’t feel much like talk’en so I didn’t even answer her. She walked right over and hooked her arm in mine then she pulled me toward the door of the church and I told her right off, “I ain’t going in there, they is all either mad at me or mak’en fun one!”

Then she done something I never expected, kissed me full on the mouth. Looking me right in the eye she winked and said, “Come on in here, no one’s mad, I think this is just about the merriest Christmas any of us has ever seen. Besides, I was the one who drew your name and I’ve got you something extra special.”

Extra special I reckin it was, special enough to make me forget about that mule anyways. Even today some fifteen years later, when I think about Bell I get all confused. Some ways I’m glad she died soon after and I didn’t have to be reminded no more of that night; just fell right over there in the stall, dead as a fence post. Then I look over at Jenny and think how she ain’t kissed nobody since, nobody ‘ceptin me that is and I want to hug that old mule’s neck. There’s some things ain’t worth sort’en out, they’s just best left alone and I reck’in my feelings about mules is one of them.

CC 2010 Michael D. Gray

We are indeed connected by a spirit, a spirit that I can't explain but that connects us just the same. As I think of family and the friends of my youth, the one word that comes to mind is "love."

We had a yard sale at my childhood home in preparation for the eventual sale of the property. I felt gloomy; this is the place I have come home to for over 50 years. I came here for comfort as a child when I had been kidded at school. I came here later when I lost a wrestling match in high school. I came home every summer to share my birthday with my family. I came on Christmas to share a very special time of the year with "family." I came here to share Sunday afternoons with cousins and midday lunches in the summer when there was so much food a nap was required after lunch.

I came here to rejoice when my son was born, and I came here to cry when I was divorced. During the day I saw some of the people of my youth and relived old memories. A cousin stopped by and shared memories of my Father who passed away over 20 years ago; a member of the youth group that my parents led for many years stopped by and talked about old times at church and the effect my parents had on her.

An older gentleman who had done odd jobs for my Mother in later years pulled me aside to tell me how much my Mother had meant to him. But I was almost brought to tears when two men whom I had seen only once or twice in the past 30 years walked up to the back door. As I was growing up, one gave me the first real job I had off the farm, a job that actually paid a weekly check. The other was an old fishing partner.

I remember the sound of the horn on his little Renault. That horn was the signal for me to run into the shop to get my fishing gear for an afternoon on the lake. He eventually became a fisher of men at a church in North Carolina, and we lost contact for a few years. Today, as I look back on these people, I realize it is not the place I called home that drew me; it was not the house and farm of my youth, but the people.

We are indeed connected by a spirit, a spirit that I can't explain but that connects us just the same. As I think of family and the friends of my youth, the one word that comes to mind is "love." One visitor began to cry as she picked up a piece of pottery and said, "I want this to remember your Mom by." Another brought ham biscuits her Mother had made, for the giving of food is a way of showing love. I can't explain this love nor can I control it or turn it on or off. I only know of its presence. I can tell you how it feels. It is warmth and a comfort; it is the feeling of home.

There are those who take the Bible literally and say heaven is a place where the streets are paved with gold, with mansions lining the streets. There are others who say that heaven is not a place but a state of mind where one knows only peace. Others will say heaven is where we will have everything we ever wanted, and still others believe we will only want what we have. But today I realized there is only one way I can describe heaven. It is a place where the only thought or power will be love. Where "God is love" will be manifest in our hearts.

Zero Greenhouse Emissions - A Review

I consider myself environmentally conscious, a supporter of the earth and an informed member of the public. Daily I tweet about matters relating to the environment and climate change and daily I read articles about both, yet by the time I finished Bob Williamson’s book Zero Greenhouse Emissions, The Day the Lights Went Out I felt I had been somewhat of a hypocrite.


Bob’s book is a fictional account of the result of CO2 emissions on our environment and the draconian steps that will be required if we do not immediately reverse the effects of our human activities. What I liked most about the book is its personal look, from a tour of the kitchen and not only what we did, but what will have to, give up.

Zero Greenhouse Emissions lays out in cold hard science what we as humans are doing to the environment in a way a layperson like myself can understand. Although written by an Aussie and using measurements unfamiliar to the American audience, the steps which we can take to audit our own energy use can easily be converted to the English system. Even without actual calculation it is immediately apparent what and where we can change.

The book also covers areas which are not always included in our conversations about global climate change, water shortage and recycling to name two and how we need to make a shift in our paradigm of handling these crisis’. It would be easy for the book to relay a message of doom for many of the warnings are becoming reality, but it is also a book of hope, hope in humanity as a whole.

The book was interesting and I read it in two sittings, well written from the first person’s view it captured my attention and held it throughout. Now I am looking forward to studying it in greater detail and incorporating the suggested changes into my life style.

Winner of numerous awards both in Australia and internationally, including Global Environment Award for Plactics for 2006 presented in Atlanta Georgia, Bob Williamson is the founder of Greenhouse Neutral Foundation, a nonprofit established by his family to educate and precipitate environmental awareness.

I was not paid for writing this review and the copy of the book was one which I purchased. I am a member of the Greenhouse Neutral Honor role, a purely informational list of concerned writers whose attention is focused on the environment.

I found my hero in an unlikely place.

I listened to the presentation on the radio. The commentator was having trouble accepting returning soldiers from Iraq as heroes. Having grown up during the Vietnam conflict, I knew the difference between the soldier and the conflict. I had watched the news at night as returning veterans, many wounded, were spit on. I experienced first-hand the suicide of a family friend who was not able to adapt to life back home. I wanted to respond and "set the man straight."

But my mind went out on a tangent and I began to wonder, who are my heroes?

Certainly as a child I had many heroes, Abraham Lincoln, Daniel Boone, the soldiers of War World II. I had spent hours upon hours pretending to be these men. Later when I began to read more I embraced the characters in books, some imaginary, some not, as my heroes. In one case a writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, became a role model.

When I was a teenager, a close friend became a hero. He faced a terminal illness with courage and laughter. I wondered how I would react under similar circumstances.

But who are my heroes now?

I had trouble finding an answer. I can't say I look to any current politicians as heroes. I have instead developed a mild distrust of anything political. Very few sports celebrities come to mind although I do often hear of some being involved in a worthy causes.

Then I remembered something that happened very close to home. Something that occurred in a family I am acquainted with.

The phone call came one Monday morning, "I just had to talk to someone. I just received a call from Vic and his son has been in a bad accident. They are going to amputate both of his feet."

I was in shock, so much so I had to call back after a few minutes to get the details.

"They were scuba diving in Florida. Jordan's feet got into the propeller and they are so mangled it looks like amputation is the only answer."

Over the next few days I stayed in touch with news from the family through mutual friends. It was a miracle that both parents were doctors and knew what to do. It was a miracle they were able to airlift Jordan to a hospital in Miami that has a specialty in this kind of injury. It was a miracle he made it to the hospital after loosing so much blood.

But the true miracle occurred weeks later when I heard Jordan was coming home. As I wondered about his state of mind I heard about his request during the stay in the hospital. He had noticed the many children who could not afford the treatment he was receiving and requested that a foundation be set up for the solicitation of funds to help those in the hospital who could not help themselves financially.

Shortly after he arrived I attended a football game at his high school. All around him were his high school friends, laughing and giving him support. These same friends were selling bracelets in the stands to raise money for his foundation. Miami Hurricane Coach Larry Coker came by the hospital and his autograph said, "Press on, J.T." The slogan is imprinted on the blue bracelets.

Jordan said he was in his hospital room with his aunt when the phone rang and she said somebody named Greg was on the line.

He said, "I only knew one Greg." He said the voice on the line introduces himself as Greg Norman — the golfing great. Jordan says, "I did not expect the Greg to be Greg Norman. I had to ask him again who he was."

He said Norman encouraged him to "stay positive and keep a good attitude."

My heroes are those people like Jordan, people who face life on life's terms with faith, people who are not thinking only of themselves even when facing life's biggest challenges.

Before I check out your "game" tell me your politics.

The older I become the more I relish those times when I am able to "be in the moment." Those times when work, children, and conflicts of the world are pushed aside. I find these moments in prayer and meditation. Many times I find conversation with friends has rooted me in the moment. Sometimes it is the experience of a beautiful sunset. Often I find it during exercise.

I love a long bike ride. I am blessed to live a few short minutes from Chickamauga Military Park where there are several miles of road suitable for riding. If a more strenuous ride is in order there are three mountains offering as much challenge as you desire.

During the winter months I spend time in the local YMCA, where a game of racquetball is easily found. Friday afternoon, a friend and I met there for a "friendly" game, friendly meaning he would just as soon pound me into the court as not.

We met in the locker room and caught up with the news on friends and family as we changed into our workout clothes. When we walked upstairs into the court area a man, seated in front of our court smiled and spoke, "Good Morning."

"Good morning."

"Would you like to play cut throat?"  ( a game in which one person plays th eother two)

I caught myself sizing up my opponent. Normally I would have taken in his age, physical condition, and equipment, trying to decide whether he was going to be someone I wanted to play before I answered. This time it was different. I noticed he was of dark complexion with wavy hair with a slight accent and before I knew it I was wondering whether he was from the Middle East.

I have never considered myself prejudice and I don't think I was being entirely so now. But, I had to admit, three or four years ago I would never have wondered whether he was Muslim, or Christian, or atheist. I would only have wondered what kind of game he had. I thought about my reaction and realized that we are bombarded with news of Arab and Jew and Christian conflict. Politics is permeated with agendas based on belief. The evening news is substantially dominated with stories of Middle East conflict and terrorism.

With no premeditation on my part I had become one of those who first judges based on religious belief, even when a simple game of racquetball is in order.

Radical Change - Radical Actions

Once, in the 1.5 mile drive from the main highway there were 5 houses, now there are 20 subdivisions. Once as a boy I roamed these hills quail hunting now there are none to be seen, once I fished in the lake adjacent to the property, now it is virtually impossible to find a point of entry all the land is divided and has multimillion dollar homes, some with one resident per 2 or 3 thousand square feet.


I thought of the legacy I am passing to my son, one with barriers to nature and then I realized….. At some point in time, unless we change our habits and lifestyle there will be no nature to be enjoyed. We are already polluting, consuming, destroying at an unrecoverable rate. On a global level, the glaciers are melting, our natural resources are being consumed at an alarming rate and yet there is less concern than who will win the super bowl.

I find it hard to remove the environment from my mind these days and find that for the most part, few who I talk to seem to care. Maybe it is because we have concentrated too much attention on global problems that seem insurmountable and not enough on what is going on in our own backyard. How much fertilizer do you spread on that green lawn that requires mowing once every week or two? How often do we shop for food items that are grown non-organically and require petro to be delivered rather than locally grown or even home grown organic vegetables? Could it be that purchasing items in bulk rather than individual packages would be less costly in the long run? How many times do you run home to change clothes before those errands we need done before the day is done and for that matter, why is mass transit not a first choice rather than an afterthought.

Environmentalism starts at home, and then hope spreads. Radical change requires radical action, the kind that begins at home.

Somewhere Past the Darkness

Somewhere past the darkness


Where fear is put to bed

Somewhere past transitory desire and famished need

There is a candle, a bright shining light of love

One candle chases the shadows, but two can light a room.

Come with me my love, lay with me throughout the night

Acquaint me with your hopes and dreams, fears and doubts

I do not wish for you to need me

Ask me to stay instead… because you want me

Open your heart and bleed upon me

Wash me in your thought

cc mike gray 2010

A Christmas Story

I first saw the girl on a train coming into Chattanooga station. She was young and pretty enough but I think it was the smile that caught my attention. I made a good impression, being back from WWII and still in my uniform with four combat ribbons and a purple heart, enough so that she showed that smile when I walked down the aisle of the train. Chattanooga was just a stop over; I was headed out west to seek a fortune in California. I had seen the grape arbors in France and had it in my mind I was going to build a vineyard. But that smile stopped me and the next thing I knew it was eight weeks later and I had to do something. That's why I went home for Christmas alone, despite her asking me to stay, I needed some time to think.

If anyone could help me sort all this out it would be Dad, he and Mom had been married for 58 years this past summer and I still saw him give her a kiss when he left the house every morning. So home I went, home where I knew I was welcome and I got there on Christmas Eve, just in time for decorating the tree.

Dad and I went to the back of the farm and cut a cedar. He found one with some of those blue berries growing on one side. I don't know what kind they are but he always found one, said Mom liked so much he couldn't bare bringing home a tree without them. I reckin he would have painted some on otherwise. We shaped the tree down on the back porch and made a platform out of an old washtub filled with gravels. I tripped helping carry the tub in and spilled them gravels all over the steps, he laughed and smoked on his pipe while I was picking them up.

"So why you been staying up in Chattanooga since you got back, your Mom she's been worrying about you."

"I had some things I had to take care of before I come home."

Dad knew that wasn't the whole story but he never was one to pry none. He figgered it would all come out eventually. I got the gravels back into the tub and we carried it into the living room them pushed the trunk of the tree down in them so it was secure.  I had offered to buy them a stand for the tree one year, but he said, "That's the way your Mom likes it and I reckin that's the way its gotta be."

After dinner Mom and I trimmed the tree with popcorn strung up on thread and candle. Dad sat in a kitchen chair he pulled into the room and played Christmas carols on his guitar. When we finished Mom lit the candles then joined Dad with her dulcimer. I don't know if there is anything makes me want to be home more than Christmas Eve with mountain music. It went over and over in my head on the battle field in France the year before. There was a lull in the bombardment and I could hear that music as sweet as if I was there. I had closed my eyes and imagined Mom and Dad sitting there singing to me. It was a reason I made it through that hard time and it was a hard time.

The next morning I woke up when I heard the both of them down in the kitchen getting the coffee started so I got up and pulled on some warm clothes. I could go help Dad feed the cattle before breakfast. Felt good to put on something besides a uniform for a change and that flannel shirt felt so soft, like Mom had washed it the day before.

"Morning," I said as I walked into the room. Dad was standing there beside Mom, both of them looking like they had been caught at something. Then I realized he had his arm around her waist and knew I had walked in on him giving her a hug.

"Good morning son," Mom said as she handed me a cup of coffee.

I held the cup with both hands letting the hot steam carry the scent of the coffee into my face.

"Thought I might help you feed this morning Dad," I looked at him as I took my first sip.

"The help would be well thought of son."

Then he reached over and kissed Mom on the cheek and said, "Maybe we can talk someone into a pancake breakfast when we get back."

It had been a cold Christmas and the snow lingered around from the week before. Grandpa used to say it was waiting on its brother. We finished feeding the stock then Dad picked up and axe. "We've got to break the ice on the pond before we quit, the cows can't get in to drink."

As we walked down to the pond I gathered up my nerve and asked Dad, "Do you still love Mom."

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Sure, more than I did when I met her," Then waited like he was expecting me to say something else.

We walked on in silence for a while before Dad broke it, "Something you want to tell me son?"

It all came spilling out, the vineyards in France and how I had heard California had the right climate to grow grapes, how scared I had been the whole time I was in Europe. How there were things I had done I would never talk about. We reached the pond and I took first turn at chopping the ice. It was a precarious job. You had to stand right next to the water to hit the ice and yet you had to be careful not to slide in when it broke so I quit talking while we were finishing cutting five big holes. If you didn't make them big enough they would freeze right back up and a cow wouldn't break the ice to get at water. A horse would paw at it until it had broken but a cow would just stand there starring at it, no matter how thirsty it got.

We were walking back up to the barn when I told Dad about the girl in Chattanooga. He put the axes up and sat down on a bale of hay before he said anything back, "So this girl, do you love her?"

"Oh she's pretty Dad, she's got walnut colored hair and big old blue eyes and when she smiles the whole room lights up."

"Yea, but do you love her?"

"Well I guess so, we never fight and she is sweet as she can be."

"Yea son but do you love her?"

He kept asking that question until I had to answer it. But I didn't know how so I asked him, "How do you know if you are in love?"

He lit his pipe and took two or three puff's on it before he answered, "Love marks a man son, it shakes him down in his boots. It's different for a woman, she knows what it is. But a man, most of the time it takes by surprise. He don't know the difference in just having a crush and real love."

"How do you know."

"Why if you you've ever been there you can see it on a man, it's written on his face."

"Am I in love?"

He laughed, "Why son that's something you have to decide for yourself, if I told you might not believe me and you would always wonder if I was wrong."

"But how do you know if it will last? How did you know yours and Mom's would last."

"Well now that's a different kind of love son, that's the kind you decide on. It not that stuff that hits you like a sledge hammer and makes your knees buckle it's the kind that grows on you because every day when you get up you start it out with a kiss and the words in your head. Then when you lay down at night you fix anything that you've done wrong before you go to sleep. Cause you know when you get up in the morning you are going to love her all over again. You know it because you decide it."

We got up and walked back down toward the house, kicking the snow off our boots on the outside and then taking them off beside the back door, setting them just inside where they would stay warm. Dad walked over to Mom and pulled her to him sideways, giving her a kiss on the cheek when he did. "I think I want to skip them pancakes this morning and go right on to Christmas dinner," he said. "The boy and I had a talk while we were out and he needs to go back to Chattanooga on the afternoon train. He's got some business he needs to attend too."

CC 2009 Michael Gray

For Freedom Cries

Hang with the claws of the leopard
walk into the devil's clutch
Until even God is alone
And still you will not be forgotten
The world watches while freedom cries
Be not afraid God is with you
Man's sting can not seize
what death does not own
Carry your burden with our accent
For today and tomorrow
you bare the prayers
Of a million tongues a hundred religions
Your lament will not be silenced
For far above the rooftops it carries on the wind

Easter Sunday

St. Michael’s Episcopal Church is now fifty years old. Additions have transformed the little chapel to a church of some size with a new sanctuary, parish hall and education wing. Instead of an on-loan minister we now have a full time staff composed of a rector, an assistant and church clerk. The congregation had gathered to celebrate this occasion and my eyes wondered about the room taking in the people. Some I knew; some I didn’t. Some I recognized; some I did not. Although I had been here ten years myself, the church was large enough that there were still people whom I had not met, people who hung onto the periphery of the congregation. Then I spotted Lester Niles and his wife; she had her hand on his arm, her eyes aglow with a twinkle, as they always seemed to be. I laughed to myself thinking of that Easter Sunday when Lester first came to our congregation.
Lilies covered the church; they were in each window, beside the choir and down the aisles on each side of the sanctuary. Today was Easter Sunday and every table was draped in white, the minister wore white vestments, the choir... white robes. White gilded the whole church like an early morning snow, snow unspoiled by footsteps, smooth and glistening. I had taken my station on the left entrance, handing out programs, as each parishioner entered.
“Good morning Mrs. Tally, you certainly look festive today.” Mrs. Francis Tally was anything but festive, one hundred years old in action, but probably sixty chronologically. I had not heard her speak a word since her husband died some fifteen years ago without a complaint tacked on the end.
“All that white, I wonder how much it cost the church to put all those lilies around, couldn’t they have found some family that needed the money more. Why, when Albert was alive he would have found a better way to spend all that money, this church just hasn’t been the same since Albert died.”
Albert had died five years before I became a member so I had never met him, but if Albert was anything like Francis Tally I had no doubt that was true.
The Sunday I was initiated as an usher I greeted Mrs. Tally and politely walked down the isle to show her to her seat. She always sat in the second pew from the front on the left side of the church, the side closest to the podium. I turned, looking around for the first time; proud that I knew where to guide her when I was surprised to see she was still waiting at the rear of the church. I made my way back to her and this time offered my arm, which she took. I noticed a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth and I couldn’t quite decide whether that was a smirk, grin, or look of comtempt, so I proceeded with no comment.
No sooner than I had made my way back to the rear of the church than Ms. Mira Estes materialized, dressed to kill in bright vermilion from head to her foot. Her head was festooned with a floppy hat best described as a soufflé turned upside down and her feet with spiked heals that raised her height two or three inches. In between, her dress flowed, for there was no shape, just layer upon layer of shiny, translucent cloth that reminded me of flexible deck screening. Only five feet tall, she made up in dress what she lacked in height. Mira was the complete opposite of Mrs. Tally, always greeting you with a kind word, I was glad to give her my arm to guide her into the sanctuary.
“Good morning Paul, isn’t this a fine Easter morning to be alive. It does my old heart good to see you so involved in the church; helping us old ladies find our way. I never married you know, but if I had it would have been someone just like you.”
Many parishioners at St. Michael’s had their own pew, sitting in the same spot each and every Sunday. I remember hearing that tickets to the Super Bowl were so hotly contested once in a divorce they were the sole reason it ended up in court instead of being settled before hand. The judge was so angered he ordered the tickets shared on a rotating, every other year, basis. Pews were the same. Families inherited pews. When old man Wilson died his wife just moved over and his son moved up from three rows back. When Mrs. Johnson moved to be close to her daughter in Colorado her pew sat empty for two months, out of reverence for her absence. The Grayson family finally moved in as a result of being her neighbors for twenty odd years. Some were as animent about where they sat as to challenge a usurper after service, reminding them, “It was so good to see you sitting there in my pew that I couldn’t even think of asking you to move.” Ms. Mira’s was the fourth pew back on the left side of the center aisle.
The Lilly Christians were out in force today. That is what Father James called them, the ones who show up on Easter and aren’t seen again until Christmas, when they magically turn into Poinsettia Christians. Both varieties are numerous enough to cause a seating shortage on these two Sundays.
Reverend James, the choir, and other lay assistants followed the cross in procession down the right side of the aisle. Once past, Scott Bean, a new usher just like me, took his place in the center of the aisle to hold back the late comers, waiting until the procession was over to seat them. I never understood why some people are always late to church. Are they also late to work and school or is there a contest to see who can arrive the closest to 10:30 without being late, and these are the ones who loose? There are those whom I believe will be late to their own funeral.
Movement behind Scott caught my attention and I looked over just in time to see a large, gray headed man push by my fellow usher. Probably weighing 250 pounds he was not obese, just large with shoulders bearing witness to a life of labor not a desk job, his gray hair long but neatly combed fell in waves from front to back. He had apparently gotten the memo about dressing the church out in white, but missed the part about the starting time of the service. I stared, he was dressed completely in white, white shirt, white tie, white pants, and white coat and I had not seen a white suit in thirty years. The only part of his clothing not white, were his black suspenders and black shoes, paten leather and burnished so brightly they flashed with each step, reflecting light from the stained glass windows. He would have been comical if not so imposing a figure, I would have guessed his age to be mid sixties, but his physical condition was of a much younger man.
There was one, and only one, empty seat on the right side of the church near the front. He slid by the procession and headed straight for it with enough commotion to draw half of the congregation’s attention. He captured the other half when instead of excusing himself and waiting for everyone to move over to let him in, he stepped up in the seat walked down the pew behind Mr. and Mrs. Bob Jackson plopping down in the empty spot, a spot much smaller than his bullgous form needed, causing Bob’s wife to practically sit in his lap.
Trouble, it had arrived, but I still hoped for the best. I had not grown up Episcopalian, with its structured service and quite reverence. No, I had grown up in a church apparently like this man thought he was in. A church where people stood for prayer instead of kneeling, where if you were not on time you simply slid in as quickly as possible, where a shouted acknowledgement of what was said in the pulpit was common.
Things settled down however, and being wrong encouraged me. We made it through the Old and New Testament readings and almost through the gospel selection, when our visitor got religion and started shouting, “Praise the Lord, Christ is raised.”
At this point Bob and Sarah Jackson slid out of their seat and hurriedly made their way to the rear of the church while my counterpart headed for the visitor’s pew. He tried as discretely as possible to quiet our new friend down. But, our friend became louder upon his arrival; apparently thinking Scott had come to join his revelry. Scott, for his part, almost fell backward, saying, “It’s alright, it’s all right, please, please just sit down.” We all assumed he was nuts and hope was that he would stay seated for the rest of the service.
Once again things quieted down and we all breathed a sigh of relief. But when Father James began the sermon, upon the completion of each sentence he was met with the response, “Praise our Holy Lord, praise Jesus.”
This time with obvious caution Scott made his way back to our new friend in front. Once again the closer he got the louder our visitor became, but Scott didn’t back off this time and said, “Sir, we don’t want any trouble, but you are going to have to come with me.”
With no hesitation, our gentleman followed meekly to the rear of the church and headed out the door. We all gave a sigh of relief and tried to gather our wits to determine what we needed to do next.
We four ushers gathered in the back of the church and made our way forward to begin taking up the collection. I had come to the very end of my section when I saw him. There in the back row was our friend in the white suit. Sitting as calmly as possible with his eyes closed as if in meditation. Now he was my problem! I was not scared, well okay I was nervous. What would I do if he started disrupting the service? I ran through my mind what was left and could not think of anytime that would elicit a Hallelujah or Praise the Lord. I was wrong. Trouble came during the confession. While all others were repeating Lord have mercy, our friend cried, “Lord forgive me for I am the worst of sinners.” I slowly started toward him, not knowing what I was going to do. “I have sinned in every way possible.” I quickened my step. “I have stolen, lied and been in jail.” Scott started over from the other side of the church. “I have sinned against my brother by telling lies about them.” I was almost there. “I have fornicated with…”
Suddenly from out of nowhere, Ms. Mira Estes slid by me. She pulled me back, as she slid into the pew beside this man who was nearly three times her size. She gripped his arm and whispered in his ear. I could not hear what she said but for the first time that Easter Sunday our visitor was quite.
The rest of the service was uneventful. Our visitor took his lead from Mira and kneeled when she kneeled, spoke when she spoke, and took communion at her side.
That was nearly five years ago. Now on the first and third Sunday of every month I see Lester and Mira Niles sitting in the fourth pew on the left side. Lester has learned to conduct himself like a life long Episcopalian and from what I’ve heard on the second and fourth Sundays of every month, Mira can be found sitting beside Lester, shouting a few ‘Praise the Lord’s’ herself, down at the First Avenue Church of the Ascension.

My Facebook has Twittered into Outer Space

A close friend recently moved to our 50th state. A move I am jealous of but we will not go into that here. In the meantime we have stayed in touch by a number of methods, Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, text messaging, and even an old fashion phone call.

It has been very pleasing to remain in touch, at times almost instantly over an incredible distance and several time zones. I have watched as pictures are posted of outings and new apartments and as new friends have come into her life.

However, in reviewing the quality of our correspondence I have noted a remarked decline. We very seldom talk about how we are feeling, the text message does not reflect the inclination of the voice, and as much as I believe in the power of the written word, it has left me feeling that something is missing.

For all of our advances in communication, we are loosing our intimacy. There is not a Facebook application for wiping tears, there is a hug app, but does it really replace the feeling of a good squeeze now and then? You can't tell whether "doing fine" is a literal statement or an avoidance of letting feelings out when you can not hear the reflection of the voice.

There will never be a replacement for a good long sit on the porch steps, or a walk in the park, or a shared dinner. We can never replace the importance of human contact.

A Day of Hope

Today is a day of hope, as many who are watching the inauguration just as I, are feeling. For today we are watching as a man whom can only be described as a hero becomes our next president. It strikes me that we have been waiting for several years now for a reason to have hope and the events of the day and the last few months give us hope. It seems that there has been nothing but bad news for the last few years and then a man steps in who encourages change, even demands change, steps to the podium and asks us to believe.

I watched as my grammar school was integrated, I watched as the first black teachers came to my school, I watched as two Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr. were assassinated and wondered what it meant. Today I watch as another square in the quilt of history is sewn and I do know what this means.

I remember a conversation with a friend earlier in the summer when we were discussing the presidential candidates and who we were going to support. The question was asked, “Can a black man be elected president?”

I replied, “I don’t know.”

But from that moment on a change came on me, a willingness to hope, that regardless of a man’s color, regardless of his religion, a person could be elected on his ideals. That day I became a believer. With that belief came hope.

It is my hope today that we remember it is up to us, the ones that put this man into office to continue to work, to continue to hope and to believe. It is a time for us to continue in action. The man we have elected has more responsibility than I can imagine. But we have a responsibility also, to continue to work; for a united America, for a world of peace, for a world that loves and believes.

I am overjoyed to be living in America on this day. It is fitting that the inauguration tomorrow follows today, Martin Luther King Day.

Today I had lunch with a group of people and our general topic of discussion was our joy at being able to experience this day in history. Several discussed their experience of seeing the schools integrated and what they felt then and now. One related the story of his father, who was a U.S. Marshal during the time of riots. His Father's neck was broken during one in Louisiana and he related how he regretted his Father had not lived to see this day. Another told of growing up in rural Tennessee and his father proudly predicting that during his son's lifetime he would see a black president. He went further and said he had not believed his Dad's prediction. The group was all white and I find it exhilarating that this group of white southerners would be celebrating the election of a black president.

We also talked about Martin Luther King, Jr. and his work. One made the statement that sometimes people have to die so that others might enjoy freedom. A saddening and grim fact, but true regardless.

We are living in an era that will go down in history and become as studied, as revered as any time in our history and I for one am honored to be a part of it.

In the Silence

Recently I was wondering why I feel so at home in the wilderness. At first I was attributing it to a deep engrained family thing, which I am sure is part of it. But, last night I was watching Legend and there is a line in which being able to hear God is attributed to the fact there is so little noise now that there are only three living humans in New York.

It stuck me, yes that is one reason the woods call me, the wide open spacies seem so peaceful. The noise is not man made. Many times while camping I have been highly annoided at a loud human intrusion. Something so out of place and yet so ordinary in the city.

I seek the wildness because it is only interuppted by the sound of nature. It is where I can here the voice of God.

Mentor

Through life I have had many mentors. The first I remember was a man some ten years my senior who took me fishing. I was not old enough to drive myself at the time, but I learned to recognize the sound of his car coming up the road. I didn't even have to look, I gathered my fishing equipment and stood at the ready in our driveway. He talked as we fihed and shared hios wisdom of the outdoors and life.

The next was a literature teacher in college who was kind enough to secure an interview for me with the head of the department when he was directing a play about which I was writing a paper. I did not realize at the time what an honor and privilege that was. I made an A on that paper and it was my first experience with true writing.

Today I recognize that I am mentored by many, but there is one who is always constant. I have learned to accept her wisdom even when it does not make me very happy. She is honest and that is the number one trait of a true mentor.

Memories

We sold my Mother's house yesterday. I hope the new owner receives as much joy as our family did. My Father started building it when he returned from the Korean War. Through the last sixty years it has seen it's share of love and joy, arguments and heartache. News of weddings and divorce, births and deaths, storms and tornadoes.



What it has given up is memories. Memories of good times and bad all shared by family. I helped build the room upstairs, holding the Sheetrock with a long T shaped stick my Father made because I was to short to reach the ceiling, even though it was only six feet high. The broken brick in the living room hearth was my fault. I was pounding on a log trying to make kindling when it broke.



The holes out behind the metal shop were dug by my dog, Smokey. The same one who refused to eat when I was gone one week during the summer. He dug the holes and laid in them until I returned.



Out back we shot fireworks and beside the western side of the house there is a breeze that flows through all summer, a great place to sit while you wait for the stars.



The metal building was where we re-built my first car. A 1953 Chevrolet Bel air convertible that would not shift out of second gear when we purchased it in Knoxville. We drove it home that night in second gear and immediately began tearing it apart. I was only fourteen. We had it completely restored in time for my drivers test.



May it bring you joy and peace.