Of races won

From a column I wrote March 17, 1984...
With a record turn-out of nearly 175 entrants for the past 1984 Blue-Grey Fun Run, I often wonder what thoughts of heroism these kids entertain while they wait for the start.
One of my most memorable experiences while 'fun-running' came as a lonely third grader in Monticello, Florida.
Being a minister's son, our family had made the first move of many, this one from Sopchoppy, a quaint, "our town" sort of Big Bend community of 800 residents. Compared to Sopchoppy, Monticello was as grand as Washington,DC, with its Jeffersonian courthouse, historic homes and our rambling two-story parsonage.
Impressive as all this was, I was most impressed to know that the school in Monticello had four third-grades. I did not know that so many kids my age existed. Needless to say, the first weeks of school found me in a state of awe, fearful and searching for friends.
As young boys do anywhere, we were engaged in a constant struggle to see how far, how fast, how big, how good or how whatever, we could do better than the other fellow. P.E. and recess were our times for testing.
Being the new kid in school, I wanted very much to measure up. In third grade at Jefferson Elementary School, measuring up meant being friends with Jimmy Haines and his group of chums.
Jimmy was the best athlete and pack leader of Cub Scout Troop 864. He and his friends were the object of the girls' secret notes and they were the first ones picked for any game. If I could break into their circle, life in this new place would be complete, I reasoned.
My chance for "breaking-in" came unexpected one afternoon in P.E. when coach Cooksey announced that the upcoming field day, we were going to have a race to see who was the fastest runner in all of third grade.
I secretly dreamed of seeing myself falling across the finish line, exhausted, Deborah Daniels, who I secretly admired, who openly had "cooties", but inwardly I adored, bestowing kisses and congratulations on me.
Whatever my motivation, from the thought of being the fastest out of so many, to the girls, victory was my only dream and desire.
The big day arrived and coach Cooksey called for the final event of the day. He had us all line up across the playground and gave us our instructions: "At the sound of the whistle, run and touch the white rail fence, turn around and run past me. First one back is the winner," he bellowed.
Tense, our hearts beating in anticipation of the whistles shrill sound, we leaned forward with uncanny discipline. "Tweeeet!" Shrilled the whistle and off we tore in a tangle of tennis shoes, dungarees, pig tails and skirts.
Jimmy Haines, as expected, took an early lead. Everyone expected Jimmy to win, as usual. But not far behind Jimmy was the new kid no one had thought to consider.
As I pulled along side him, I got a look from Jimmy that would have made you thought a girl was about to pass him.
To make a short story of this 200yard marathon, with less than 20 yards to go, I put on a "Alberto Salazar like" surge, unequaled to this day, which propelled me past Jimmy and on to victory by three whole yards. By adult standards, not much, but in a child's estimation, a run-away.
How good victory felt. Jimmy and I were suddenly best buddies. His friends became my friends. They asked me to join their group. My new kid image was lost in 60 seconds of running. The girls didn't kiss and congratulate me(thank goodness) but I found without looking, the benefits of that one fleeting moment were never forgotten.
No ribbons, no plaques, trophies or medals.
Just the satisfaction that even a child feels when he has acceptance, recognition and a feeling of worth.
Today, I look at all those kids in area running events and see in their eyes, that same determination I felt so long ago.
To them, may it always be just what it is, "fun-running".

Musing

Going through the old computer and looking for a certain photo...coming upon photographs recalled and so many, so many....

Slow Thaw

Landon emailed Jordon again today with more information. They live on the base, right on the Pacific Ocean on the eighth floor of a tower apartment. They had a mild earthquake, which rocked the building recently. The surfing is good and in the winter it snows in the mountians north of them so they have already gotten snowboards. He told of the fellow he works with, mentioned sending some photographs. So the thaw slowly comes. I asked Jordon to have him send video of Nathaniel.
Thanking God for this break in the ice.

Lake City Logo

the proposed new logo.....

Current logo

hate flyer

original design

Compare the original logo here that the city adopted in the early 80's to the messed up version they use today, I again contend, they need to restore the original I drew way back when.
The reason it was changed? You guessed it, the NAACP waged a hate campaign, calling Lake City the Hateway to Florida, saying Logo must go! upon the courthouse steps. I stood in the crowd of ranters at the back by the then Tison Auditorium City Hall and shook my head.
And what did Mayor Kirkland do in the cloak of dark for appeasement? He got a black high school art teacher who took the soldier on the horse out and across the top of the logo plastered a bunch of marching soldiers, not even drawn to blend, taking Columbia's location in Florida out of the design, totally over-emphasizing the Olustee Re-enactment and Battle. It threw the balance off the logo and yet, kept the Confederate flag in the design while adding the American flag in the prominent position! Go figure! The South won this battle. Cannot erase that truth of history.
My solution, which fell upon deaf ears, was simply to place the original Florida flag or the confederate flag with the one star  where the Confederate battle flag was. As most of the ranters could not tell what a flag was unless it was crossed, this would have gone totally unnoticed by those ignorant of history, only choosing to fall for the politically correct line of history.
One day perhaps one will come into office and restore the original logo, restore the poor Alligator who had to go and telling the NAACP to take a long hike North. Dream on, dream on.

A falling through

today Jordon made contact with Landon in Japan via email. he told Jordon that he could maintain contact with him, but if it was in order to let mom and dad get in touch with him, he would cut him off as well. and how can we thus have the opportunity to ask any forgiveness? Melanie today is in constant tears. i am simply numb, blocking the pain.

I will give you wasp

This photograph, from an old derelict church along Suwannee Valley Road, now torn down, shows a poorly wrought painting of Jesus, with the words above in the banner scroll, "Come Unto Me", a reference from Matthew 11:28 where Jesus says, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me: for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls."
As if in a mocking manner, the dirt daubers had built a nest right over the face of Jesus. It spoke to me. In most of my spiritual life, what I have received was not rest, but wasps.
We were told this world is not our home, that we were to look for a heavenly one. Thus, by inference, anything here was of lesser value and worth. The things of this world were to be shunned, as sinful, as of the flesh, worldy, devilish.
Art, why that is idolatry, a graven image, putting something before God. Music and literature as well. If it did not fall under the narrow confines of the defined, it was to be shunned. We poked fun at the Amish and Mennonites who took this other worldliness to the extreme, but we autere Baptists and Methodists were equally to blame.
In the quest for the upper story, we learn not to appreciate the lower story in which we lived.
The fellow brothers and sisters we were called to love, when we fell out in disagreement over the color of the altar cloth, or the pew styles, we parted to form a church of the Shaker style pew, to our own liking, shunning those who remained in the pew of a lesser color.
We said that we loved God and our fellow men above ourselves, but in practice, we didn't. We loved our image. Our way. The highway was for the wanderers, the strangers, the blind, the halt, the ones who could not see our way.
Comfortable and proud in our Shaker style pews, we listened to the preacher of our own choosing, preach a sermon that spoke only to us. We could see the world out there, for we did not like stained glass, we took of our grape juice communion, for we dared not inbibe wine, we pulled all icons from our white walls, for that was idolatry, a graven image, we sang the honky tonk southern style, for the chant was boring, high churchy, and we could not get to the benediction soon enough, for how quickly the Olive Garden filled on Sundays with those fortunate to abide by the clock upon the back wall.
And so the sting of wasps was what we got.

Round and around

Will I make it around for another revolution of the mill? To crush the cane, to extract the juice, to boil down into syrup, to bottle and sit upon a shelf?
It seems I shall not even make it through this October of family birthdays, the almost weekly reminder from the cakes full of candles that life has passed by many of family, that the revolutions for others are winding down, the mill hard laboring to squeeze the remaining juice from them.
And still we circle, drawing upon some courage, some hope out there, that there shall be a good end to all the circling.
From this once tight circle we have family flung all over, scattered as the pummy pile high with the bees hovering over them. It seems almost an impossible task to recover them, once squeezed beyond recognition. We can only pray that someday, the circle will again close in upon us all and we shall again, drink of the sweet juice, gathered around the old mill.

Williston United Methodist 70's Sunday School

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh Kentucky

This time last year we were in Kentucky! How I miss those bluegrass fields with the grazing horses, the neatly painted white fences, the irratic stone slave fences, the narrow winding lanes through all this wonderful countryside.
Oh that I were a man of means and I could afford the luxury of having a place near Lexington, where I could spend the fall and winters, affording to attend a few UK basketball games, going over to Asbury in Wilmore for the revivals and campus life activities, staying a few days at Shaker Village of Mount Pleasant, etc.
But I am not a man of any means, only a man who dreams.

Misawa, Japan

We can only assume at this point that Amber and Nathaniel went to Japan to the Misawa Air Force Base with Landon. Nikki let us know today that he showed up on the Air Force World Wide Web. She said that she has his phone, email, etc.
Cannot begin to convey how our hearts sunk when we learned it was so far away, that Misawa is a family base, meaning family usually goes, and that it could be for three years.
Little Nathaniel will be six or so if we ever get to see him again. It is doubtful Meme will ever see him again. For that matter, I do not even hold out hope that I shall.

Forever Orbiting

 

Falling Creek

Early view of Falling Creek Methodist before the addition of the porch for wheelchair access on the left, the monument by the left front door, the sidewalk over to the restrooms and sunday school building off to the right. I liked it better before the "fall".
It is now called a community church, pastored by a retired Methodist ministress Cheryl Pringle, who ministered at Falling Creek when it was on the Methodist circuit of small country churches.

Go down Moses

 

 

the turning away

 

The Select Like

Recently it was pointed out to me that none of my friends from the former church we attended ever comment on anything you post on Facebook anymore. I  said that I knew that. There was a time when we were a part of that fellowship that they would. The photographs were lovely, the poems even liked at times. At what point in this process did all this cease?
It is the interesting aspect of our walk that Facebook reveals, that even though we are brothers and sisters I assume, even though we have chosen differing paths, we say through our silence that we are not. I am like the crazy Uncle Si who says things that are not always so nice or correct. Is that a reason to no longer consider me a part of the family?
It is a great sorrow that one of my own family members has totally blocked us from their lives.
The crime we committed is certainly not equal to the sentence. We cannot even ask forgiveness.
I have said many things I wish I could take back. I can only say again, forgive me.
In the future, I will make an effort to like my friends posts from former churches who still have me on their Facebook list of friends.
I would like to add that the new radio station(90.1) WPTG has been a  blessing, especially the singing of Lani. Keep up the good work. You are loved.