PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

Having first attended a small bible-based college in the 60's, I was afforded the opportunity of serving as an adjunct professor there a full four decades later; it having metamorphosed by this time into a university offering over fifty majors, including graduate level degrees.

Regretfully, virtually all of the part-time faculty were 'dispatched' in the next five years, and replaced by fulltime staff. I will, however, always be grateful for having been granted the privilege which was made available to me of impacting hundreds of promising students preparing for life and ministry. During that time period I met several of whom I sensed a special affinity, and as a result I have remained in touch through social media and email. One such young lady was named 'Sue.'

Over the past couple of years, (and for as long as I have maintained this blog) I have shared selected writings with her. As a result, a few days ago I shared a reminiscence with Sue about a conference I attended in which Ruth Graham, Billy Graham's daughter, presented a series of lectures. I happened to be the first person to walk into the auditorium for one particular presentation, and took a seat on the third row, center.

Suddenly, Ruth walked across the stage and seeing me stopped, and smiled and said,

"I'll be right back."

Well, dear readers, she may have long since forgotten that little innuendo,

...but I never will.

As I previously inferred, I shared this particular story with my former student, and reminiscent of the last scene in the movie, "Mr. Holland's Opus" Sue responded with,

"Well, that dear lady is the well-known daughter of an even more famous father, but you may well remain unknown, except in your little town.”

Pt. 2

Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son, Steve, had seen his sisters, and with Jean's concurrence, I invited him to accompany me.

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table , and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

"I'm three!"

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

"I'm sixty-eight!"

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

"You will live a very long life."

(and)

"You will do wonderful things!"

I cannot tell you where my words came from, nor whether they were particularly inspired; any more than whether my former student's words (See Pt. 1) were "for such a time as this," (though, thus far, it would seem so). And I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

Of this, however, I am sure. Before He breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

Yes, I am sure of it.

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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WHEN SOMEONE STEPS AWAY

As my wife and I sat in church this morning, two of our parishioners shared their personal stories of what might be characterized as “having been left behind.”

The older of the two women expressed how her husband passed away a couple of years ago, and how utterly lonely she sometimes felt. The younger of the two ladies referred to her military daughter and grandchildren, and the pain associated with them having, after a short visit, left for home.

Being left behind

I can relate. Someone very near and dear to me casually, and without notice or explanation “stepped away” three years ago, this month.

Granted, there’s any number of ways people leave family and friends behind. Sometimes it is purposeful. Sometimes it is beyond their control. While the circumstances may be different, the resulting pain is very much the same, and can be excruciating.

Jesus knew the grief and loneliness of having been left behind. When he took on flesh and dwelt among us, He and His Father were separated for a third of a century; whereas, they had communed together throughout the countless eons which preceded what must have seemed like an interminable season.

At one point, members of His outer circle deserted Him, and He so poignantly queried the others, “Will you also go away?” Then there was the final disillusionment, after His arrest, of all but one of The Twelve having momentarily stepped away. And who can forget the overwhelming grief and loneliness He endured, as He bore the sins of all mankind of all the ages, and a primal scream rose up within Him, and He shouted, “My God, My God, why has Thou forsaken me?”

Pt. 2

Whether the result of death, physical separation, betrayal or any of many other potential causes, grief and loneliness are among the most usual of outcomes, and not easily overcome.

However, given both my experiential and professional levels, (as I am a counselor) I understand the imperative of transcending what I perceive to be the two most likely of symptoms with which we have been left; after people, in one way or another have left us behind.

And perhaps as much from personal experience, as from my professional training, I have discovered ways and means whereby the grief and loneliness of having been left behind can be successfully navigated.

*I think it is imperative that we shun the tendency to behave like nothing of any import has transpired in our lives. Ignoring grief and loneliness does not serve to make these emotions any less real. And if such symptoms are not initially acknowledged, and addressed, any number of physical, emotional, and psychological maladies may result.

*The recognition that while time does not heal all wounds, it is a variable through which we must pass; in order to properly transcend those dark emotions which overwhelm us and limit our function.

*There is the wisdom of allowing friends and family into our lives when everything within us screams to be left alone with our dark emotions. As a counselor, I have often encouraged my clients that, “Anything good and worthwhile must be done ‘on purpose’ (and) Only wrecks happen by accident.”

*Speaking of doing what we do on purpose, I think it is imperative that we busy ourselves with those activities to which we have previously devoted our time; including exercise, recreation, and spiritual pursuits.

Pt. 3

*And then there is the imperative of rest. Obsessive thought patterns and a tendency to brood over the loss can overwhelm our ability to relax, and disrupt our sleep patterns. A doctor may prescribe a short term medication for symptoms of anxiety or depression, or an inability to sleep.

*Sometimes we need a ‘professional friend.’ If and when the loss of a relationship seems impossible to navigate, and time has failed to assuage the symptoms of grief and loneliness, the presence of a counselor may be the order of the day.

*The realization that you’ve managed before and you’ll manage again. Our Creator has built a resilience into mankind which has allowed men and women to overcome horrendous adversity. And having overcome, to assist others who are in the throes of the kind of things which we, ourselves, have previously experienced.

*And last, (but not least) our identification with the Lord Jesus Christ. My favorite passage of scripture is found in the New Testament Book of Hebrews.

“We have not a high priest who cannot be touched by the feelings of our infirmities for He was in all ways tempted like as we are, yet without sin.

Let us come boldly to the throne of grace that we may receive mercy for our failures, and grace to help in the time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16)

Our Savior experienced the depths of grief and loneliness which are impossible for us to comprehend. And having ‘been there,’ He, as the God-man, is able to come along side those who are experiencing what to Him is all too familiar.

As the result of the substitutionary death of Christ on the cross we have been adopted into the family of God, and are privileged to bring our needs to Him. 

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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FOOTPRINTS

As I stepped out of the shower this evening, and walked out of the bathroom into my bedroom, I looked behind me, and noticed I’d left two wet footprints on the rug.

Two obvious indentations. Heels, insteps and toes.

And then it struck me. As the rug dries, the pile will regain its original shape, and my footprints will be disappear; almost as quickly as I laid them down.

I don’t mind telling you that the concept of disappearing footprints scares me to death. Oh, I don’t mean the ones I left on my bathroom rug, or on one of our Florida beaches; which have such a short ‘shelf life.’

No, I’m referring to my proverbial footprints; indentations in the sand of life which we are all busy leaving behind us. Our character. Our reputations. Our influence. The memories we are currently weaving into the minds and souls of those whom God has chosen for us to impact. That which we bequeath to those who have pledged to take up our mantle, and wrap it around their shoulders.

I am a man taken up with destiny. Thus, the realization that my figurative footprints might disappear ‘scares me to death.’ For you see, I want to be remembered. Well, to be sure it’s much less important that I be remembered, as it is that all the time and effort I have expended be replicated in the lives of those with whom I have to do.

There’s a two word admonition in the third chapter of the New Testament Book of Philippians.

“Copy me.”

I realize that my visitation on this planet is time-limited. The 2/3 of a century which God has granted me thus far is a gift. And I think He expects me to honor that gift by giving the gift of my life to others; which if God allows, I will continue to do.

I am a pastoral counselor and a mentor. In recent years I have begun to enjoy the latter role more than the former. Perhaps because I have been given the opportunity to act as a role model for potential people of excellence, and to leave my footprints behind for them to follow.

Speaking of gifts, one of my interns once encouraged me with a statement which left me almost speechless.

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go for you when you can no longer go. I’ll speak for you when you can no longer speak. I’ll reach, teach and keep souls in your name long after you have gone on to your reward.”

My students truly are messages to a time that I will never see, and with such worthy individuals as this, I am increasingly convinced that my footprints will be visible for some time to come.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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HAS THOU NO SCAR?

A few years ago, I was watching an interview between an anchorman and a priest on FOX news, and the topic happened to be the late Pope, John Paul, who had only just passed away.

The priest began to speak about the sufferings of the pope, how that after the assassination attempt he suffered pain the rest of his life, and as John Paul aged he developed Parkinson's Disease which proved to be extremely debilitating, as well. And yet for all his suffering, this priest continued to travel, and minister to his people.

Near the end of the interview the Catholic cleric quoted Colossians 1:24, "Filling up in my own body the unfinished sufferings of Christ."

And the newsman responded, "I don't understand. What is unfinished about Christ' sufferings?"

To which the kindly priest, with a sad twinkle in his eye, responded...

"…Our Participation.”

NO SCAR? 

By Amy Carmichael

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land;
I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star.
Hast thou no scar?

Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers; spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned.
Hast thou no wound?

No wound? No scar?
Yet, as the Master shall the servant be,
And piercèd are the feet that follow Me.
But thine are whole; can he have followed far
Who hast no wound or scar?

THE LAKE WHISPERER

“You preserve both man, and animals alike.” (Psalm 36:6)

My brother in law and sister in law live on the very same lake upon which her parents lived before them. Matter of fact, they live in the very same home.

And as “strange and wonderful” as it may seem, I refer to my wife’s sister as, “The Lake Whisperer.”

Speaking of my in-laws, my parents in law were named, “Dock” and “Ruby.” Interestingly enough, their daughter has given two Sandhill Cranes, which regularly stroll up to her house, those very names. And the names of their rather statuesque chicks happen to be, “Sue” and “Lou Jean;” (her own name, and that of my wife).

When Sue sees them scampering into her back yard, and trumpeting the familiar honks which are distinctly theirs, she retrieves some bread from the pantry, and eagerly greets these beautiful gray birds; (which sport the most luxurious red head feathers upon which you ever laid eyes). Sue seems to be especially fond of “Ruby Redhead.” It goes without saying, this impressive bird’s “Christian name” serves as a modifier for her surname.

Over the past several years six or seven ducks which inhabit the lake have produced eggs, which have, subsequently, produced chicks. However, they haven’t been able to nurture the little ducks to adulthood; (which might have something to do with a several seven or eight foot Florida alligators which seem possessed with a taste for fresh duckling)!

However, the tide seems to have turned, as one of the feathered young couples has somehow managed to raise a brood of seven wee ones; well past the age when their tiny siblings succumbed to the culinary delight of those slimy green reptiles. Sue refers to the lucky little ducklings as, “The Magnificent Seven.” (A fitting name, indeed).

Pt. 2

Then, there is that aquatic creature upon which Sue has bestowed the unlikely name of, “Fred.” My sister in law first met him one afternoon during the midst of feeding her menagerie of assorted lake creatures. Fred is a rather large Nile Perch, (as in McDonald’s filet of fish sandwich) which “tips the scale” at an impressive four or five pounds. It  seems the standard fare in this “neck of the woods” is bread. However, Fred has never been known to complain, and he regularly swims beneath the dock, as dusk prepares to give way to night, and drifts in lazy circles; awaiting a few tasty morsels of the baker’s best.

I think Sue must have every attribute of a well-known Bible character, except perhaps one. (Thus far, God hasn’t instructed her to build an ark)!

I will allow her to describe what may very be her favorite dinner guest:

“I noticed a particular turtle which began coming around the dock for her share of bread. This turtle (I kid you not) has an imprint of a bikini top on her shell, thus I have awarded her the name, “Sexy Lady”. She spots me from quite a distance, and immediately paddles toward the dock. (Another turtle has discovered there's free food here, and in the past month has begun accompanying Sexy Lady). This new turtle has the strangest markings on his shell; lines which radiate in every direction. As a result, I have bestowed the name of “Leonardo” on the dear little creature. (Leonardo, as in Leonardo DaVinci)! 

“Leonardo has really impressed me lately. He attempts to climb up the boards which serve as braces for the dock. Recently, I learned the nature of his mission. I leaned as far over the water as I could, and he climbed as high up the boards as he possibly could.

“And, after pausing a moment to thank God for the blessings he was about to receive, (well, I don’t know about that) Leonardo took a bite of the piece of bread I extended towards him. And, thus, we continued our non-verbal soliloquy until the bread had been transferred from my hand to his belly.”

Afterward

“I've read in the Bible that one of the exclusive features of heaven is a River of Life. And just as God has promised me a mansion, I’m not ashamed to tell you that I've asked Him to allow my animal friends to inhabit that celestial river. (And I believe He has every intention of doing just that)!

“I love those lazy afternoons with my special little friends. And, you know, I’m convinced that we will wile away many heavenly afternoons together; in that lovely place where neither tears, nor dark of night will intrude upon our rivalry.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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THE NOTES & MELODIES OF MY LIFE

There are certain movies that I watch again and again. They simply never grow old.

“A Beautiful Mind”

“Jane Eyre”

“Driving Miss Daisy”

“Mr. Holland’s Opus”

Speaking of “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” I love the closing scene. But to back up a bit.

Mr. Holland has served as a music teacher in an Oregon high school for thirty years; having begun what he described as a temporary “gig,” but at this stage passionately loving every minute the job has afforded him. However, one day he is notified that, for lack of funding, not only is his job being cut, but more importantly the entire music program in his beloved school is being discontinued.

Of course, he experiences depression and disillusionment, and we are witnesses as our hero, on his final day, trudges into his classroom for the last time, and begins to pack a small box of meager possessions.

As he finishes that solemn job, his wife and adult son walk into the classroom, and they subsequently walk out together. And as sad as this scene is, it would be sadder still if that was all there was to it.

However, as the trio approach the front door of the school, Mr. Holland pauses. He hears music wafting from the closed double doors of the auditorium; that same auditorium in which he has previously conducted numerous musicals and benefits over the years.

Mr. Holland poses a question; almost to himself.

“What is that?”

And with this, he turns to investigate the dilemma; leaving his wife and son a few steps behind.

As the aged music teacher opens the door, he seems momentarily confused. The auditorium is full of teachers, students, community leaders and friends, and a large and colorful sign hangs above the stage.

“Goodbye Mr. Holland!”

The frumpy little man catches his breath, and seemingly in an instant the morose emotions which had recently overwhelmed him flee away, and are replaced with a spirit of reflection and gratitude.

An energetic dynamic and joyfulness prevails in this place, and there can be little doubt that Glenn Holland has impacted countless lives represented here. He has been not only a teacher, but a leader; a mentor and a role model. He has contributed mightily to the destinies of countless students, and bequeathed a rich legacy to those who would follow in his footsteps.

Suddenly, the doors swing open again, and in walks a vibrant red-headed woman, accompanied by a couple of highway patrolmen. And Mr. Holland immediately recognizes “Gertrude Lang.”

Gertrude was a former student, and during her tenure here had struggled to master the clarinet. Her devoted teacher suggested she come in before school and allow him to tutor her.

As the young lady places the reed into her mouth and blows, the most horrendous excuse for music invades the air about her. Mr. Holland displays the seeming patience of Job, and continues to work with Gertrude, offering her a bit of guidance here, a story or metaphor there; until she gets it right.

Even as this obviously adept and confident woman strides towards the podium, she reflects on that day from so long ago.

“What do you like most about yourself, Miss Lang?”

To which she responds, “My hair.”

“Why is that Gertrude?”

The pale young redhead smiles, and says, “My father says it reminds him of the sunset.”

Mr. Holland’s response is both poignant and inspiring,

…“Play the sunset.”

And with that, a spark of insight seems to envelope the teenage girl’s countenance, and with that Miss Lang’s clarinet emits the most melodious notes which have ever escaped from it.

As the middle-aged woman mounts the stage, the announcer’s voice booms across the auditorium.

“Teachers and students of Kennedy High School, the honorable Gertrude Lang, Governor of the State of Oregon.”

The governor stations herself behind the microphone, smiles broadly towards her former teacher, and begins her monologue,

“Mr. Holland had a great influence on my life. On a lot of lives at Kennedy High School, I know. And I have the feeling that he considers a great deal of his life misspent. He wrote this symphony of his to be performed, possibly to make him rich or famous; probably both. Well, he isn’t rich or famous; except in this little town.

He might even consider his life a failure… but I think he has achieved a success which goes beyond mere riches or fame. Look around you, Mr. Holland. For there is not a life in this room that you have not touched. And each of us is a better person for meeting you, or for being your student. This is your symphony, Mr. Holland. We are the notes and melodies of your opus.

…We are the music of your life.”

Over the past few decades, God has graciously provided me the opportunity to counsel thousands, (in a pastoral counseling environment), teach hundreds, (at a local university), and mentor dozens, (in the context of a formal discipleship program). And I acknowledge not only that providential plan which allowed all of this to fall into place, but the gracious wherewithal He has bestowed upon me to make a difference in the lives of them whom He has set in my pathway.

And like Mr. Holland, I am neither rich nor famous; not even in my little town. But I like to think that with all my time and effort, I have irrevocably touched the lives which He has committed to my care; in a profound and inestimable way.

And if this is the case, well, that will be more than enough for me.

I may not be the most humble person who ever walked the planet. I am too close to the thing to judge properly. But I have often reminded my students that “it is okay to forget the messenger. Just don’t forget the message.”

(and)

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

Those whom I have had the marvelous opportunity to teach, counsel, mentor and impact represent the notes and melodies of my own opus.

…They are the music of my life.

 by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 52. Copyright pending.

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STANDING IN FOR BETH

I step out my front door about 4am almost every weekday morning, and walk the streets of my neighborhood, or adjacent four lane highway. And while I can’t say I’m losing any weight, at least I’m not gaining any either.

Odd, how one’s sensibilities seem to be heightened in the wee hours of the morning; at least within the ‘confines’ of the great outdoors. For I have had several unexplainable experiences during my nightly treks.

The sense of smell. More than once I have been walking along the sidewalk, and a vehicle has sped by. And suddenly, close behind the passing vehicle, the fragrance of perfume, or the odor of a cigarette. Perhaps my heightened sensitivity to smell during the wee hours has everything to do with the relative quietness of the evening, or the lower temperature, or great humidity.

However, none of the foregoing factors can explain my having seen things which I never expected to see during the course of my life on earth.

The ethereal, momentary appearance of my dearly departed pooch. The equally brief appearance (and disappearance) of what I am convinced was one of God’s heavenly beings.

And then there was a woman (for lack of a more adequate characterization) and her dog, adjacent to the sidewalk. She was standing in the landscaped area of a bank, and singing the most eerie song known (or unknown) to mortal man. (Needless to say, I “kept on keeping on”).

I don’t know why I have been privy to more miracles than you “can shake a stick at.” I only know I have, (and so many more than I could begin to recount here). To be sure, I’m nobody special, and I certainly haven’t done anything deserving of even one sign or wonder.

Pt. 2

But, among the most amazing of miracles which I have experienced is a series of “near misses” which have accompanied me during my young, middle and older adult years.

During the course of my job at a phosphate mine, and while working the evening shift, I walked between a dragline and its massive swinging bucket, as it did what it did best. However, in spite of the darkness which surrounded me, the operator witnessed my predicament and dropped the twenty ton bucket against the slope of the deep pit which he had been digging. I was only moments from certain death.

Then, there was the time when I was driving home from work one day, and managed to flip my car on a rain-soaked road. Having rolled off the road and onto the shoulder, it came to rest on its wheels; resulting in plenty of damage to the automobile, and little or none to me.

Then again, in the past couple of decades my wife and I were nearing our house one day, along that same stretch of road which I walk on a recurring basis, when a car ran a stop sign; perhaps fifty feet ahead of us. My wife immediately locked up the brakes of our 1980 something green Oldsmobile. In the other car, two little children stared out their rear window at us; abject terror registering on their faces.

There was no question. Someone, or multiple someone’s were about to die. However, as I sat on the passenger side of the vehicle I was struck with the strangest possibility of escape. Assuming the position of driver from the unlikeliest of positions, I wrested the steering wheel from my wife with my left hand, and I managed to steer our car behind the offending vehicle. Having missed the automobile by all of a foot, our car immediately went into a 180 degree spin, and finally came to rest next to the border fence of a nearby home; our frontend facing in the direction which our backend had been facing only moments before.

Pt. 3

But allow me to digress a moment.

Beth was a classmate of mine, though a year behind me in school. And while I don’t recall exchanging so much as one word with her, we were both members of our high school chorus.

Beth was the daughter of a local minister of music, and his wife, was a fine Christian girl, was a member of several high school academic and vocational groups, and was blessed with plenty of friends.

Sadly, at the tender age of 17, and just three months before her high school graduation Beth was involved in a one vehicle accident, and succumbed to her injuries.

I mean, who can account for it? The loss of such a person of excellence and rich potential? Not only this, but it seems she surrendered her life to providence “first time out; at such a young and inestimably unfair age.

Yes, I have experienced a significant number of what I often refer to as “near misses,” (or near death experiences) during the course of my life, and I have only recounted a few here.

Did I mention my sensitivity to my environment seems to be heightened in the wee hours of the morning? Then, last night perhaps one of the most amazing, although subtle miracles I have been privileged to experience.

As I was in the process of completing my hour long walk, I heard, (or rather perceived) the voice.

“I want you to stand in for Beth.”

(Even as I type these words, a shiver runs up my spine).

Afterward

Granted, it was only a perception. But this perception literally “came out of nowhere.” I hadn’t been thinking of Beth, nor any of several long lost classmates who “left us before their time.”

…“I want you to stand in for Beth.”

As someone who has been directly associated with various helping ministries over the course of half a century, (including the roles of pastor, professor, youth leader, mentor and counselor) I like to think I have made difference in multiplied thousands of lives.

Yet, in spite of everything which has already fallen together in my life, hardly a day goes by that I don’t whisper a prayer.

“Lord, please don’t let me miss out on whatever still remains of my destiny. Please don’t allow me to miss out on each and every circumstance and event you have planned for me, and the people whom you have yet to set in my pathway.”

Now, at the grand old age of 70, I don’t know if God has appointed me as a personal emissary for that dear precious soul who never had the opportunity to live out a long and fulfilling life on the earth, or whether God has placed the exact same unction into the hearts of dozens of Beth’s former classmates.

Either way, I think the meaning of the message is the same.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 85. Copyright pending

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OLD TOM (A Mule That Helped Build a City)

My wife and I visited the Polk County Historical and Genealogical Library today; a place we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay. 

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

… And they hope for the night.

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

“And So It Goes”

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.


*(Old Tom was just as surely a founder and builder of the City of Bartow, Florida as any human being, and it might be said that we 'owe' him).


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 45. Copyright pending.

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