SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

 4294

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint.

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

MY MONKEY & ME

 4293

I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed thousand piece puzzle. 

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 *Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage, I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. ( not sure the time of year), but when we came home we never saw him again. I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(And in regard to my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey love and care…)

“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too.”

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4292

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music on someone’s TV.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

(Allison Carter, USA Today)

OH YES, I WAS THE GUARD

 4291

I wrote a poem in memory of Tracey Brogdon, a National Guardswoman from the Lake Wales, Florida unit, who died in a vehicle accident in Saudi Arabia during the Persian Gulf War. I was a member of the Army National Guard in Lakeland, Florida at the time. After I wrote the poem, I felt strangely compelled to have it inscribed on a plaque. Having had a trophy shop create the plaque, I presented it to the assembled soldiers of the unit she had faithfully served with in Lake Wales. 

OH YES, I WAS THE GUARD

 

A Poem dedicated to the memory

of SGT Tracey Darlene Brogdon. National Guardswoman. K.I.A., Saudi Arabia, 1^st Gulf War

 

               SSG William Royce McDonald (Ret.)

 

He trod the snow with Washington,

his feet were numb with pain

He fired the shot heard round the world,

the prize he sought, he gained

 

My brother wore the Union blue,

as he climbed Henry Hill

My comrade wore the Rebel gray,

as his heart lay cold and still

 

The Guardsman packed his duffel bag

at Uncle Sam’s request

Through years to come the Fuhrer’s men

would give him little rest

 

In the skies of Vietnam,

his wings were swept with fog

A missile arced, a pilot died,

and touched the face of God

 

Someone tapped her shoulder

and said, “It is your turn,”

In his hand a worn baton,

“The race is not quite won.”

 

And though she would lose family,

and though she would lose friends

And though she would lose life itself,

her hand she did extend

 

Her teammate was still struggling

to match her faster gait

And as he passed baton to her,

he fell to seal his fate

 

And as she clutched that hallowed prize,

the wood was red and scarred

He whispers as he ends his watch,

“Oh yes, I was the Guard”

 

It was her turn to run the race,

beneath a foreign sun

Her ship had weathered every rack,

the prize she sought, she won

 

It was her turn to set the pace

across the burning sand

What Guard will dare to take her place,

which one extends his hand?

MR. MCFEELEY

 Pt. 1

I was scrolling through the Facebook "Reels" today and came across a short segment from an old "Andy Griffith Show" that I remember, (and which is very relevant for the people of several states at this time, as you will see).

It seems that Opie happened on a man in his trek through the local woods one day. The fellow introduced himself as "Mr. McFeeley." He was dressed in blue jeans, long sleeved pale blue shirt, a belt with a large ornate buckle and brown work boots.

Striking up a conversation with Opie, Mr. McFeeley explained that he was a lineman, and had been doing maintenance on the telephone lines outside of Mayberry. Apparently, Mr. McFeeley had some time on his hands, as he proceeded to perform a trick for the Sheriff's son.

Pulling a cigarette out of a pack he had in his shirt pocket, and lighting it up, he took a big draw, puffed some smoke into his fist, put his hand up to his ear, and released the white vapor in short bursts. Opie laughed, and thought it looked like his ear was on fire.

Now, Mr. McFeeley began to sing a little jingle that Opie had never heard. And speaking of "jingle," the middle-aged man began to do a two step while he was singing, and the little boy noticed the change in his pockets kept time with the chorus.

Finally, Mr. McFeeley decided it was time to go back to work, and he told Opie so.

"Little man, I guess I better earn my keep. I need to keep doing what I do best."

Bidding one another "goodbye," Opie headed towards home.

Pt. 2

Opie arrived at his home on Maple Street fifteen minutes later.

Walking in the door, he ran into Aunt Bee, and immediately told her about his new friend, Mr. McFeeley.

"Aunt Bee, I met a man in the woods who could blow smoke out of his ears, sang a swell song to me, and jingled when he danced!"

Of course, the aging housekeeper assumed Opie had created an imaginary friend "out of whole cloth." However, she humored the seven year old, and figured she'd mention it to Andy when he arrived home that evening.

And true to form, when the sheriff arrived home, Opie immediately began to tell him about his newfound friend, Mr. McFeeley.

"Pa, Pa I met the neatest old fella in the woods today. He did a magic trick for me. He blew smoke out of his ear, he sang me a swell song, and he jingled when he danced!"

Sheriff Taylor just wasn't "buying it."

"Now Opie, it's alright to have imaginary friends, at least it was, but maybe you're getting too old for that sorta thing."

Opie wouldn't be denied.

"No, Pa. Mr. McFeeley is real!"

Andy decided to address the issue further after supper. And supper being over, he told his son to get ready for bed.

Twenty minutes later, Andy climbed the staircase, walked into Opie's room, and raised the topic again.

"Now you know, son, there isn't a Mr. McFeeley. I know it's fun to talk about, but he simply isn't real."

Opie shook his head.

"But you gotta believe me, Pa. You just gotta!"

Post-script

Having tucked Opie in, and kissed him on the forehead, Andy headed down the stairs. Now, Aunt Bee approached him, and asked,

"Andy, did you tell Opie that you didn't believe in Mr. McFeeley?"

The sheriff smiled, and responded,

"No. No, I didn't tell him I didn't believe in Mr. McFeeley. But, you know Aunt Bee,... I believe in Opie."

(Interestingly enough, as this segment of The Andy Griffith Show concludes, Andy discovers Mr. McFeeley climbing a telephone pole; just fifteen minutes from home).

by Bill McDonald, PhD

STAY ENCOURAGED

 4289

I was a member of the U.S. Air Force at the time, and my wife and I were attending a large church in Tampa.

And as is the case with many evangelical churches, Pastor Matheny occasionally brought in guest speakers. However, this time around the guest evangelist was, to say the least, different than all the rest who proceeded him.

Other than his Mississippi accent, Rev. Brown possessed one particular trait which separated him from every other evangelist with whom I’d been acquainted in my (at that time) 20+ years of life on this planet. (And to be sure, I’ve never seen that trait recreated in the almost half century since).

Now and then, as the good reverend reached a point in his sermon which he thought worthy of a figurative exclamation mark, he would throw out his right leg at a 45 degree angle. I suppose this occurred all of six or eight times during the course of every 45 minute message, and which he faithfully performed throughout the one week series of revival meetings.

The last night of his meetings finally arrived, and as his final sermon concluded, the audience was invited to ‘q up’ and wish the evangelist ‘God speed;’ as he prepared to travel to his next engagement. And although I have stood behind numerous pulpits and counseled thousands, I still possess a bit of introvertism I seem to bring to certain situations. However, this was obviously not one of them, since I had especially enjoyed the evangelist’ messages, and his strange little mannerism struck me both humorous and unique.

As the line ebbed, and I brought up the rear, I reached out to shake the good preacher’s hand, and he reciprocated. And looking me directly in the eye, Rev. Brown said something no one had said to me before, (nor since).

…“Stay Encouraged.”

I have previously written about those people whom you meet once in a lifetime, but whose impact lingers for as long.

The little waitress in California named Jamie who bore an uncanny resemblance to the television character, “Anne of Green Gables,” and whose photo my wife and I procured before departing the premises.

Bob, a mental patient in the same facility as my daughter, who sadly informed me that “nobody comes to see me here. Not my daddy, not my mama, not my family” (and) “Would you hug me?” (Which I proceeded to do right there in front of God and everybody).

Gary, a college student and summer hiker on the Appalachian Trail, whom my dad invited to share our North Carolina campsite, and with whom we wiled away the hours prior to retiring for the night.

The unidentified woman who approached me and a couple of other National Guardsmen, as we stepped out of a local McDonald’s in the Homestead area of Florida; after the devastation of Hurricane Andrew. Our M-16’s hung from our shoulders, ‘Jane’ (as in Jane Doe) stepped up to me, wrapped her arms firmly around me, and exclaimed, “You guys don’t know how much we appreciate you being here for us,” and quickly stepped away.

I cannot begin to guess what became of Rev. Brown, (nor for that matter, Jamie, Bob, Gary or Jane) and yet I am the better for, as brief as our passing was, having known them.

God knows how many times I have reflected upon those two words which the evangelist bequeathed to me, how I have found succor in them, and which I have countless times offered to others in my various and sundry roles as Counselor, Professor, Minister and Friend.

There’s a wonderful verse in my favorite book of scripture which has as its core a similar implication.

“But day by day, and as long as today shall last continue to encourage one another.” (Hebrews 3:13)

We live in difficult times; times in which many of us are bowed down with doubt, discouragement and despair. I like to believe that I have exercised my role of encourager well, and that I have offered my clients, students, parishioners and friends much the same thing someone once offered me.

Life is too brief and too fraught with pain to withhold the healing balm of our words and actions.

Stay Encouraged.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

AS YOU HAVE DONE IT TO THE LEAST OF THESE

 4288

There is a true story about a bedraggled young homeless man who walked into a church. He was late and the church was full. As a result, he walked down the aisle, and sat down square on the floor. Of course, all the parishioners were glaring at him the entire time. Now, a greeter, who also happened to be a church deacon, began walking from the back towards the unfortunate young man. Most everyone figured that the smelly vagrant would be ushered out of the church. However, this is when the most "strange and wonderful" thing occurred. Mr. Jones kneeled next to "Tommy", whispered something in his ear, and... sat down right next to him on the floor! The pastor had been presenting his sermon at the time, and stopped mid sentence. He was transfixed. He could only shake his head, and remind the congregation of the good Master's statement. "As much as you have done it to the least of my brethren, you have done it to Me."

SINGING WITH THE CIRCUIT RIDER

 4287

My wife was with our daughter in Massachusetts, as she was facing surgery at the time. And shortly after my wife flew out, the State of Florida was confronted with another hurricane.

I had planned to "hang loose" in my home in central Florida, as I had done with the previous six hurricanes in the last quarter century. However, when the television weatherman informed his Tampa Bay area audience that the storm had reached CAT 5 status and 180 mph winds while still a couple hundred miles out in the Gulf of Mexico, it seemed to me the Creator of storms was prompting me to "get outta Dodge."

My God-daughter, one of my former university students, and her husband, an Army chaplain, invited me to drive up to L.A. (Lower Alabama) in order to enjoy their company, and to avoid the effects of Hurricane Milton. I didn't need to be asked twice.

It goes without saying that I enjoyed my visit immensely. I love this couple and their precious children dearly.

While I was there it was decided that we would drive over to a pioneer village which, as you have probably presumed, included a General Store, miscellaneous old homes and buildings, various craftswomen weaving cloth, bottling honey, teaching children to make rudimentary dolls from corn husks, etc.

At one point we made our pilgrimage to what appeared to be some semblance of a church. Upon entering the edifice, we discovered a sixty something year old parson dressed in "Johnny Cash" black. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat atop his cranium, and a cross around his neck. A guitar was attached to his neck by way of a wide leather strap.

"Parson Roberts" began to share his extensive knowledge of the Christian circuit riders. What they wore. Where they went. To whom they went to. The sort of sermons they preached. And what they sang.

Having reached the end of his, no doubt, memorized monologue, the good preacher asked,

"Does anyone have a favorite selection? I will try to sing it."

To which I responded,

"How about the Old Rugged Cross."

The good preacher seemed to think this was a good thing. And thus, he immediately began singing. And I could just not help myself.

I began singing the first verse in unison with him.

"On a hill faraway stood an old rugged cross

the emblem of suffering and shame..."

And "to put myself out there" just isn't generally my forte. But it just felt right, and it just felt comfortable. And I was not a bit anxious.

"And I love that old cross where the dearest and best

for a world of lost sinners was slain."

Somewhere between the first couple of lines of the song and the next couple of lines, I realized that my God-daughter Jaci was videoing us. And I was glad for it since I 'save' videos of family life, our travels, etc. on a storage device to be passed down to my children.

We proceeded to sing three verses of that old hymn. And as we sang, I found I missed an occasional word, as I hadn't sung that song in church, or otherwise for multiplied years.

As the circuit riding preacher man and I sang the last line of the hymn, and acknowledged one another, I stood from my pew, and we prepared to walk out of the old church.

And as we stepped out into the sunlight, I smiled, and experienced a quiet satisfaction that the same old Gospel message was going forth here in this little pioneer village in Alabama, as it has done in hundreds of thousands of localities throughout the earth over the course of two thousand years.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE TREE WHICH STOOD THE TEST OF TIME

 4286

I think I have a complicated relationship with trees.

I remember climbing a nearby mulberry tree when I was around 12, and chowing down on its lucious purple fruit, and coming home with the sticky juice smeared all over my shirt.

In recent years, I noticed a lone oak tree in a pasture; perhaps two miles from my home. It was obviously in distress, as there was an abundance of Spanish moss covering its branches. I actually felt sorry for the lovely little tree, and spent hours one morning pulling excess moss down from its branches with a steel rake. To no avail. The poor little tree eventually succumbed, and all that remains now is a skeleton of its former self.

And then there is a nearby tree, I'm not sure what variety, along a busy four lane highway, and which was, through no fault of its own, involved in a one car accident several years ago. A young lady died in the wee hours of the morning. I actually saw the remains of the car, and the ambulance, and the attendants doing their work, as I pedaled my bike along the other side of the highway. I don't know why, perhaps the result of a personal remembrance and memorial, but I retrieved a small piece of bark that had been shattered in the accident, and I keep it in my desk drawer.

Then, there was what I refer to as the "Posing Tree" in Kissimmee State Park. Around 1985 my parents and all of their grandchildren posed on and around it. Most of the grandchildren sat on this horizontal branch about five feet off the ground. My parents stood beneath. I still have that poignant picture. Daddy and Mama have long since gone on to their reward, along with one of the grandchildren. My wife and I visited this same tree a few years ago; a full third of a century after eleven members of my immediate family posed for that beloved photo. It looked so old and so forlorn. The reason was patently obvious.

However, the tree which I remember best, and think of most often was (and is) a tree which stood (and stands) across the street from my childhood church. You see, I used to walk past it on the way to my elementary Sunday School class. At that time, we met in an old wooden frame white house which was owned by the church. And the tree. It was (and is) one of the largest oak trees I had (and have) ever seen on this (or any other) planet.

Six and a half decades have come and gone, and the old wooden frame white house was demolished years ago. And the church no longer owns the property. As a matter of fact, I also have an affiliation with the building which replaced it. You see, a branch of a national bank, in which I do my financial business, covers about thrice the acreage on which the original Sunday School building once stood.

But, as I have already inferred, that big, beautiful old oak tree still graces the premises, and I can't help but admire it, and reminisce about "the good old days" when I walked past it on the way to my Sunday School class. Speaking of reminiscing, I was in this bank the other day, and began to share my story with one of the tellers. She seems fascinated to learn that this 75 year old man had walked past that same immense green tree, and stared up into its amazing canopy when he was just barely a tenth of the age he is today.

I cannot help but hope that this grand old lovely oak tree, which has graced "the City of Oaks and Azaleas" for over a century, continues to stand the test of time, and outlives me, and my personal memories of it.

by Bill McDonald, PhD