Swimming With My Cousin, the President

I have a couple of relatives who spent ‘a fair bit of time’ in the Manchester-Warm Springs area of Georgia.

My GG Uncle “Gen.” Henry Dowling once lived in Manchester, and he was, ultimately, brought back for interment in the Manchester Cemetery. “Old Henry,” as I am prone to call him, was one of the last surviving Confederate veterans of the Civil War, one of the final National Commanders of the United Confederate Veterans organization, and the last resident of the Confederate Soldiers Home in Atlanta. 

The other relative to whom I refer was my 6^th cousin, and as well-known as Elvis or George Washington.

…Pres. Franklin Roosevelt

My wife and I once visited Warm Springs and toured Roosevelt’s “Little White House.” While we were in the area, we also toured the Pools Museum and Treatment Pools. I regret to say that at the time I was altogether unaware of my relationship to FDR; since I think my visit would have been that much more meaningful to me.(Funny, I possess a dark, pigmented spot woven into my left eyebrow; just as he did).

I was watching Ken Burns, “The Roosevelts” series today, and a segment relating to Franklin Roosevelt’s involvement at Warm Springs was featured. Of course, FDR struggled with the after effects of Polio, and was forced to wear heavy braces on his legs in order to walk; (with significant assistance, I might say). It seems he was so impressed with the therapeutic benefits of swimming and physical therapy in the pools at Warm Springs that he purchased the springs and surrounding property. 

I have never reflected on Franklin Roosevelt or my kinship to him with any particular emotion

…until today.

FDR enjoyed his time in Warm Springs, and not only took advantage of the healing waters, but on his visits there, served as a sort of camp counselor to children from across the nation who had contracted Polio, and who, like himself, sought relief from the impact of that paralytic malady.

Burns makes us aware that Roosevelt was a terrific encourager, and shed any self-consciousness about his withered limbs, as he frolicked with the children in the treatment pools. Throughout the video, there are film clips of Roosevelt smiling and easily interacting with the 8, 10 and 12 year olds who surrounded him. “Suzie,” an elderly woman now, and former summer resident of Warm Springs, shares a story about a set of therapy stairs which she detested, and did her best to avoid. Roosevelt, who asked the children to refer to him as, “Rosie,” challenged Suzie to give it her best shot. And she was determined not to let him down. A former ‘Push Boy,’ who helped dressed the patients, and pushed them everywhere they went, laughs about the time the president manhandled him, and managed to drag him underwater.

I can tell you I was mesmerized, and was surprised to feel tears spring to my eyes.  No doubt, I had at some time seen footage of Roosevelt in the pools at Warm Springs. But for whatever reason, this time was different. It occurred to me that my distant cousin, and President of the United States, for all his faults, embraced the role of a mentor, and performed his role well.

I am a mentor, and if you are to believe my former clients, students and interns, a pretty good one. I have often shared a practical reminiscence with those with whom I have to do.

“I have counseled thousands. I have taught hundreds. I have mentored dozens.”

At the present time I am mentoring five individuals in the context of a year-long discipleship program which I developed. And thus, is it any wonder how impressed and ‘taken up’ I was as I viewed FDR and the little children? I can tell you, as I watched the video, my kinship with FDR metamorphosed from a relational one into one more abiding; an emotional one.

I will never think of my cousin quite the same way again.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 40. Copyright pending

If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
**************
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index

13 Buzzards

My former National Guard chaplain posted a photo on social media the other day of 13 buzzards, ‘all q’ed up’, and roosting on the roof of his barn. (‘13’ and ‘buzzards.’ What a combo)!

And this rather incongruous photo reminded me of one of my late mother’s primary complaints about her ‘little neck of the woods.’ For you see, a few years before their respective deaths, my parents moved into a 55+ mobile home community; a few miles from their expansive home, and well- tended 1.5 acre property in the country.

Somewhere along the way, they and their fellow residents began to contend with a few unwelcome visitors. (Well, perhaps more than a few). The buzzards came in droves, and settled on their dock, in their back yard and on their roof; leaving copious piles of nasty, white, well, you know what in their wake. While this was bad enough, it seems a few homeowners along a nearby street were even more ‘put upon’ by the feathered fiends.

Beyond leaving their complimentary, well, you know what on rooves, cars, mail boxes and every other stationary object in the neighborhood, they began to systematically peck and claw water hoses, canvas awnings, pink plastic flamingos, and other miscellaneous objects into mincemeat. 

To say the residents on that end of my hometown were miffed is kin to saying the residents of Love Canal were disappointed. Of course, the matter was brought before the city commission; to no avail. State law prevents the harassment, poisoning, shooting (or otherwise killing) of buzzards, since these particular foul fowl (play on words) are nature’s primary janitors of Florida roadways; devouring all manner of putrifying carrion which falls victim to vehicular traffic.

My parents used to joke about the presence of buzzards on their lawn and roof, i.e., “They’re just waiting for us to die” (or) “You hear those pesky, black beasts above us? They’re coming to take us away!”

When I was in the 9^th grade, my favorite teacher of all time had the class memorize an old (and rather morbid) Irish prayer.

“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, Deliver us.”

We live in a world of fear and uncertainty; where the proverbial buzzards so often come to roost. Not unlike those filthy fowl which cavorted about, and generally made a mess of my parent’s rooftop.

Nuclear weapons

Terrorism

Global Warming

Political Correctness

Atheism

Anarchy

Abortion

Hunger

Pollution

Murder

Mayhem

Doubt

Despair

(Pretty depressing, huh)?

13 buzzards, but only a random flock, which strut and fret their way across the stage we call ‘life’ pecking and clawing as they go, and leaving utter devastation in their wake.

There’s a scene in the movie, “Ghost,” starring Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, in which a ‘flock’ of inky-black demons descend upon and retrieve the soul of an evil man. While I consider that movie a quality production, (and one which I watch from time to time) I think the producers spent all of a dollar twenty nine on the graphics for this particular scene. From my perspective, the ethereal beings depicted here are almost laughable, and their grunts and groans; more so.

However, those proverbial buzzards which come to roost in our own lives are not nearly as humorous, nor as momentary in appearance as the movie versions. They come to steal, kill and destroy.

Those demonic, black-hearted filthy fowl which dominate and overwhelm our lives hope to take us “farther than we want to go, keep us longer than we want to stay, and cost us more than we want to pay;” (and take pleasure in it).

The year was 1975, and as a novice minister I had been invited to speak at a nearby Alabama church; (to which I was ultimately ‘called’ as an associate pastor). It was my first of many subsequent sermons over the multiplied decades which would follow. I still remember the text.

“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” (2 Tim. 1:7)

As a ‘born-again’ Evangelical Christian these words have often come wafting back to me; like an echo from a bygone era. And yet, they are as new, and vibrant, and alive as they ever were. And in a season during which the vultures of doubt, difficulty, depression and despair peck and claw at our very souls, we are assured of God’s presence, and are heartened by the promises of His Word. 

And while the 13 (or more) random buzzards may come, and come yet again, the spiritual vultures of this world are impotent foes whose power is for a season, and whose threat is passing away.

Stay encouraged, my friend. For I have read the ‘last chapter’ of the Book, and those ugly-natured, foul-feathered birds of prey will be forever vanquished, and ultimately our Lord will ‘win out,’ (and Who has the power to keep us ‘til that day).

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time aren’t worthy to be compared to the glory that will be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

“But this life, and the lust thereof is passing away, but he who does the will of the Lord endures forever.” (1^st John 2:17)


  By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 40. Copyright pending

If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
**************
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index

Sisters of a Different Mister

My pet pooch is weird. Just plain weird.

Though Queenie, my little Shih Tzu, is a carbon copy of my first edition of the same species, (Buddy), her personality and behavior patterns are far removed.

As I will allude further, Buddy was a home body. She’d wandered up in our yard one fine and sunny day, and immediately ‘staked her claim.’ We would allow her (yes, her) to go out the front or back door, and she would do what dogs do, ‘hang loose’ under a tree, and ‘take in the rays.’ A couple of times we forgot her; only to hear barking and scratching on the door. She knew ‘where her bread was buttered,’ and she wasn’t going anywhere.

On the other hand, Queenie cannot be trusted. A few years ago she covertly scooted out the front door. Sometime thereafter, our doorbell rang, and when I opened the door a teenage girl stood holding my wayward little vagabond. “Is this your pooch?” To which I responded with a nod, and a “thank you so much.” Jamie had discovered Queenie a couple hundred yards from my house, and ‘goin on down the road.’

Buddy hated to walk. If I took it on myself to walk her, I had to carry the blessed creature a few hundred yards, and it was only after I did a 180 towards home that she became willing to saunter back.

Queenie? Well, she absolutely loves to walk and will ‘hold it’ ‘til we have reached the western edge of Outer Mongolia.

I think no dog particularly enjoys thunderstorms, but Buddy tolerated them rather well, and I don’t recall any overt response to the booms and crackles for which the Tampa Bay area is so well known.

Queenie, however, ‘is a dog of a different color.’ The expensive pooch, (paradoxically, like Buddy) had been discovered running loose, and lost in a thunderstorm, and has never been the same. As the summer lightning flashes and the thunder rolls, she cannot be still, and more often, than not, excretes a puddle of yellow liquid on our carpet.

My wife and I enjoy going to the theater, and ‘take in’ a new movie a couple times a month, eat out, and attend church. For the longest time, as we prepared to depart the premises, I would place Queenie in her cage… until we arrived home in a thunderstorm one day, and discovered she had bumped her face against the wire bars so badly that some of her facial hair was missing, and the underlying skin was bright pink; for all the wear and tear.

That was the last time I put her in the cage.

As a result, some of the most ‘strange and wonderful’ things began to occur when she was left alone during thunderstorms.

Other than the recurrent wet spots with which she graces our carpet, Queenie has attempted to ‘make herself scarce’ when the thunder boomers, well, boom. Until we finally wised up and closed the hall bathroom door, she would seek refuge there, and push the door shut behind her, only to find herself alone in the dark; thus complicating her already tenuous circumstances. As a result, our hollow door has sustained a wealth of claw marks, and the floor is often littered with sawdust.

No such antics with our Buddy. She ‘earned her keep’ and then some. I recall the day when my wife was home alone, and heard the garage down go up. At the time this was Buddy’s temporary hang-out, and her bark sent the intruder packing. Later, we discovered several greasy footprints outside the garage door. And the lovely little pooch displayed such loyalty. After my daughter separated from her husband, and retreated to our spare bedroom, Buddy refused to leave her side. Subsequently, the hairy tyke began following my wife around the house; one factor in her decision to consult a doctor. They say dogs can smell cancer cells. Jean was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer, submitted to surgery, and is a ten year survivor of the disease.

In the past couple of weeks, Queenie’s weirdness has reached stratospheric levels.

A couple of times we have returned home to find the door beneath the kitchen sink standing open, and the bug spray, dish soap, and paper towels awry, or lying on the tile floor. Our demented, little pooch had discovered a way to open the floor cabinet, and almost succeeded in gaining access to a space which would have contained her, and several of her compatriots.

My wife and I talk about the day when Queenie ‘steps off the stage’ and goes on to her reward. And as we approach the grand old age of 70, we look forward to the kind of freedom which our ‘dog owning’ status currently disallows.

There was so much good to admire in our dearly departed Buddy, and a bit too much of ‘the lack thereof’ associated with our very much alive and well, Queenie.

To be sure, Buddy and Queenie are ‘sisters of a different mister.’ And, I admit, I feel almost guilty for having compared the two. The late Buddy and the very much still ‘there there’ Queenie, for all their apparent ‘twinness,’ remain as diametrically different as day and night.

 You know, all things considered, it takes a pretty smart creature to seek refuge in the only room with no outside walls, and shut the door behind her. And I admit it, I can get pretty impressed with a pooch who opens doors like her human master.

We made our daily pilgrimage to Outer Mongolia this morning, (and, would you believe it, the little queen withheld her liquid offering).

She definitely isn’t Buddy, 

…but I wouldn’t trade her for the world!


 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 40. Copyright pending

If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
**************
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index