ONE MEMORABLE DAY. TWO GREAT MEN

 4416

The Bartow Elementary School Annex housed its 5th and 6th grade students. It has been razed now, but it stood next to the same softball, kickball, and tetherball field on which the well known evangelist, Rev. Billy Sunday, preached half a century earlier. 

I vividly recall my opportunity to watch the inauguration of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy on a black and white television while surrounded by thirty of my peers. 

Mr. Ball walked over to the TV, pulled up it's rabbit ear antenna, and turned it on. (I think our teacher intuitively realized that long after he went on to his reward, his “6^th Grade Class of 1961” pupils would remember having witnessed history in the making).

The day dawned cold, and a significant amount of snow lay on the ground in our nation's capital city. Whenever a dignitary rose, and began to speak, he or she emitted vast amounts of white fog.

And now, Robert Frost, America’s Poet Laureate, stood and began to read a poem he wrote especially for the inauguration, "The Gift Outright." 

"The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years

Before we were her people..."

As he read the first few lines, the glint from sunlight on snow rested on his paper, and almost blinded him, and he was forced to continue his rendition from memory,

"Before we were her people. She was ours

In Massachusetts, in Virginia,

But we were England’s, still colonials..."

I’m doubtful any of us sufficiently appreciated what we were witnessing that day.

Now, our new president arose, and walked to the podium. He had dressed more modestly than his counterpart, President Eisenhower. While the outgoing president was attired in a dark ankle coat befitting the harsh Winter weather, the incoming president wore clothing better suited for a more temperate climate. The end of the old. The advent of the new.

…”And my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.”

I must admit. It was a heady thing to listen to what may have been the most eloquent and relevant inaugural address in the 20^th Century.

We could not have known at the time that our 35th president would be taken from us halfway through his first term of office.

by Bill McDonald PhD

SCHOOL DAZE

 4415

My wife, Jean, and I have known one another for almost seven decades. We were 4^th grade classmates, and Mrs. Waters was our teacher. I remember this precious lady as one of my most favorite teachers. She was a fine Christian woman, an excellent role model, and dearly loved her students. We will return to this particular topic shortly.

I’ll always remember our lunchroom and library. I include these facilities in the same sentence since they were adjacent to one another, and strangely enough for Florida, they were situated below ground level. We walked down one flight of stairs, and we found ourselves in a common hallway with the lunchroom on the front left, and the library on the back right.  I think I looked forward to these daily excursions “into the abyss.” There was something rather mysterious about stepping out of the daylight into what I may have fancied as another realm.

It may have been in the 2^nd or 3^rd grade that I became interested in a particular book which I discovered in the library. This far along I cannot tell you why, but I read the entire volume in the confines of that library, (though I can’t imagine such a book being on the reserved list since it was fictional in nature, and it involved an equally fictional alien). During my entire elementary education, it is the only book I remember, (though sadly, I don’t recall its title). At the time, however, I was absolutely fascinated with that little creature, and could hardly wait to resume my reading the next school day.

Mrs. Sampson was my first, as well as my second grade teacher, and she suggested our second grade class stage a school play. I was convinced that I was her favorite student, (though I might have thought differently at the conclusion of the production). I was chosen to assume the role of the Fire Wizard; one manifestation of that old faker, “The Wizard of Oz.”

It is one of the most poignant memories of all my elementary years. My entire face was covered in heavy red rouge or lipstick. And since the whole of my monologue consisted of two lines, I was able to give significant attention to the dramatic elements of the production. (Reader, you should be smiling about now). After all, without exception, my classmates and I were convinced we were dealing with a ground breaking interpretation of that famous movie by the same name.

As I walked onto the stage, I was greeted with laughter. The audience response set me back a little, and I could only wonder if I’d missed the joke. But undeterred, I quoted my lines with all the professionalism and seriousness of Clark Gable, (or Don Knotts).

“I am Oz, the great and the terrible. Who are you , and why do you seek me?”

And then, my short-lived elementary school acting career was over. God giveth and God taketh away. ‘Tis a pitty. I was good. If, indeed, I am ever called upon for an encore, I will be ready, (since I still remember those poignant and compelling lines).

I was a little rascal, and Mrs. Waters never knew what was coming next. I sat behind a little girl named “Tiffany,” and she happened to have the most beautiful blond pigtails. In that day and time, even as elementary students, we used a type of ink pen which featured a small lever which allowed us to draw ink into the cylinder.  Each desk was equipped with an inkwell; just the perfect size for a custom size bottle of blue ink. You guessed it. At least once, and perhaps several times, I unscrewed the lid of my ink bottle, and… dipped Tiffany’s pigtails into it. It was only later that she became aware of her multi-colored braids; (and I can tell you, she wasn’t impressed.)

by Bill McDonald, PhD

FORMOSA AVENUE ANTICS

 4414

Prior to moving to “the country,” my family and I lived on a quiet little street known as “Formosa Avenue,” (apparently named for the island of Formosa, now referred to as “Taiwan").

We were surrounded by working class neighbors with surnames like, “Swofford” and “Petitt” and “Chumney” and “Bragg” and “McCall” and Raiford.” Children were in abundance here, and my siblings and I were never at a loss for juvenile companionship..

A small orange grove was situated behind our house, and it proved to be an excellent place to play. I remember “running the groves” with three or four young neighbors, in particular, including Marianne Swofford, Judy Chumney, and Mike McCall. No doubt, by the time we appeared for dinner, our bare feet were filthy with the dark brown-gray sand of our local grove.

We lived in a small, two bedroom house, and with the birth of my sister, Linda, (twelve years younger than I) we were quickly outgrowing it. Summer found us playing games like “Crack the Whip” and “Hide and Seek.” (No, I never so much as heard of “Kick the Can” until, as an adult, that game was referenced on a “Twilight Zone” movie I happened to be watching).

Considering all the risks I took, I should have been killed a hundred times. I remember climbing up in a tall mulberry tree which bordered a railroad track. I had stuffed a paper bag in my pocket, and I greedily stripped the upper limbs of their juicy, black mulberries. For all my efforts I was rewarded with stains on my shirt, (which refused to come out) and the less than satisfying ambiance of a wild “delicacy,” which the birds sometimes left to rot.

And as twilight wrapped its all-encompassing arms around our little corner of the world, and the sounds of nightingales and crickets filled the air… the mosquito truck appeared, and lumbered down our quiet street. Every boy and girl knew the sound. While the thump of its tires on asphalt, and the roar of its engine were evidence enough, we had acclimated to a different frequency, entirely. At this juncture, almost six decades hence, it is difficult to describe the sound. (Rather like what was referred to as the “Rebel Yell” of Civil War fame. It is said that you would have had to have been there). At any rate, we recognized the sound of the spray, as it forcibly emanated from the tank, and assumed the form of a thick, white mist. Honestly, I don’t know what our parents were thinking, but when “the siren called” eight or ten of us rushed into the street, and ran headlong behind the spray truck.

I think we must have inhaled the majority of what was intended for the neighborhood mosquitoes. (But somehow we survived this weekly ritual, and seemed none the worse for it).

We were blessed with the sort of wildlife that is virtually absent from our local community today. Tiny hummingbirds abounded in our neighborhood, and could be found in various colors and species. I remember my fascination with the little creatures as they fluttered from one blossom to another; their bodies radiant and distinct in the mid-day sun, and wings which were never stilled, and difficult to distinguish for the rapidity of their ceaseless beat. Sadly, the use of various pesticides has reduced the number of hummingbirds in Florida today, (though several years ago my father planted a garden of colorful flowers, and mounted a liquid feeder there, and a few of those delicate creatures installed themselves in that picturesque setting).

I recall a nearby creek, (well perhaps a community drainage ditch) which was populated by minnows and crayfish; the latter of which, as an adult, I have never yet found in similar places. There was a time when I “harvested” a few of these bottom dwellers, and dropped them into a pot of boiling water. Well, my dear reader, I can assure you the resulting taste was, I kid you not, just plain nasty. After that sad state of affairs, I consigned myself to playing with the little critters, rather than consuming them.

A childhood friend and I often walked to the “picture show” on a Friday or Saturday evening at a time when it was safe for ten and twelve year olds to walk the streets at night. The Ritz Theater was a mile from our tranquil little neighborhood, and it took very little time to walk there. But unless we took a much longer route, we were forced to walk past an old

… cemetery

which was situated directly behind my friend’s house.

The sun was low on the horizon as we trudged down that old dirt road which bordered the graveyard. No reason for alarm or thought of our safety. We laughed and talked about a hundred things, and wondered whether “The Angry Red Planet” was worth half our weekly allowance.

I only remember one movie title from that era, (and I revealed it to you earlier). As I recall, this particular film was an early 3D “B” variety jobbie, (and the only thing innovative about that “special feature” was the red and blue celluloid glasses). But, our enjoyment of the movie was influenced by our temporary independence, and, of course, if you asked us, we would swear it was the greatest cinematic production since “Gone With The Wind,” or “To Kill A Mockingbird.”

Gene and I always dreaded the walk home. By now, darkness had descended on the land. We found ourselves whistling “Old Susannah” or “I Love You Truly” to boost our confidence, and there was little idle chatter. The most anxious part of our walk home was, (you guessed it), the perimeter of the old cemetery; a distance of several hundred feet. We picked up our pace a bit, and found ourselves walking on the outside edge of the dirt road, (which in hindsight seems a bit strange, since if indeed ghosts did exist, no limestone wall or width of road would have deterred their agenda).

by Bill McDonald, PhD

STAY ENCOURAGED

 4413

We attended a relatively large church in Tampa during my tenure as a personnel clerk at MacDill Air Force Base. Revival meetings were going on at Bethel Assembly, and as the final service concluded Pastor Matheny invited the congregation to ‘q up’ and say our ‘farewells’ to the visiting evangelist.

While I have long since forgotten the name of the itinerant preacher, I will never forget one especially peculiar trait which he displayed on a recurring basis. For you see, at times he would get ‘so wound up’ that it seemed he needed to release his emotional mainspring. And thus, after this admonition or that bit of spiritual insight he’d kick out his right leg like he was punting a football, and shout, ‘Hallelujah.’

Be that as it may, as I finally neared the somewhat quirky evangelist, and reached out to shake his hand, he looked me in the eyes, and offered me what was perhaps the two most singular words in all of my life.

“Stay Encouraged!”

Though almost half a century has come and gone since that evening, and though this dear man may have, by now, passed from the earth, I have never forgotten his words, and they have buoyed me up, and afforded me courage when I might have, otherwise, simply given up.

And I think there is no more fitting manner in which to conclude what I have begun, nor anything more crucial I could offer than to pass that proverbial baton on to you; the one I received when I shook the preacher’s hand.

“Stay Encouraged!”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

GEORGE JONES, HIS RIDING LAWNMOWER & THE DIXIE PIG

 4412

During the 1950's, we moved from a perfectly good concrete block home in the Miami area to a wooden frame house in the quaint little town of Highland City, Florida. 

My grandfather was already living in central Florida, and was the owner-operator of an establishment he named, "The Dixie Pig." As I reflect on it now, I don't recall ever walking through the front door. However, I do recall the cartoon-like caricature of a pig on the sign which graced its entrance.

Over the next sixty something years, (Yeah, I'm an old guy), I was under the assumption that "The Dixie Pig" was a barbeque place. I mean, there was the pig and the title. What else could it have possibly been? However, to be fair, I don't remember asking my dad or mom about the place; (but then they never volunteered anything either).

In the past couple of days everything I knew and believed about that "barbeque place" (at least figuratively) "went up in smoke."

For you see, there is a group page on Facebook which is dedicated to that little unincorporated town in central Florida, and I happened to post a paragraph or two about my granddad and his "Dixie Pig." And, as you might imagine, I mentioned my perception of the type of cuisine which this particular establishment served; (a faulty belief which I had embraced for the past six plus decades).

And this is when the floodgates opened, and all my illusions, (or should I say delusions), were (almost literally) washed away.

For you see, with this, one person after another offered me some enlightening comments about the nature of my grandfather's business.

"Hmmm, if The Dixie Pig was a barbeque place, those pigs must have been raised on a diet of pure grain alcohol 'cause my dad was a regular customer, and he came home plastered every night of the week!"

(and)

"I filled my tank there more times than I can count."

(and)

"They even had go go girls there!"

(Dear readers, can you imagine go go girls in Highland City)?

But to top it all off, the most surprising comment of them all.

"George Jones would ride up to The Dixie Pig on his riding lawnmower!" 

(And a couple more people dittoed this remark).

But, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, there is, obviously, a "rest of the story."

George Jones and Tammy Wynette had built a home, (well, a mansion) a mile or two down the road. (The mansion is still there, though old George and sweet Tammy have long since "left the building").

George had been ticketed numerous times for DUI. (There's even a Youtube video of the old boy resisting arrest). And there's plenty of internet articles which inform us that Tammy always hid his keys when he "got the urge" for liquid refreshment. It is said that the country singer's first wife had resorted to the same course of action, and that when he lived in Nashville, he had driven his... riding lawnmower to a liquor store an hour and a half away. (All of which is "new and different" to me since my wife made me aware of these stories, after I read the foregoing social media comments about old George to her).

In my day and time, children were "meant to be seen and not heard," (which pretty well sums up the relationship I had with both my grandfathers). But "had I known then what I know now" I would have quizzed old Webster about his memories of old George, the lawnmower, and "The Dixie Pig."

The humble little "Dixie Pig" and its Highland City version of "Porky Pig" out front has been gone more than sixty years now, and has been replaced by a modern office building. (When I sit in a current Highland City establishment called "Catfish Country," and have lunch with several of my friends, and look across the street, I can still envision it there).

To be sure, I don't drink, and I have little or no use for people who get out on our highways in an inebriated state, and put other peoples' lives in danger. (And it goes without saying, I wasn't thrilled to learn that my recollections of "The Dixie Pig" and its raison d'etre were woefully wrong).

But it is what it is, and it was what it was, and to be honest, I would love to hear the stories my grandfather might have told me about old George and the nights he drove his riding lawnmower to "The Dixie Pig."

Did the bar patrons gather in the parking lot to welcome him when the familiar roar of his lawnmower broke the silence of a moonlit night? Did a drunken old country singer do an acapella version of "A Girl I Used to Know" or "I Can't Get There From Here" halfway through his nightly tenure at "The Dixie Pig?" Did my granddad and old George strike up a lop-sided relationship?

Did a guy named, Wilbur hear the roar of the lawnmower, shake his head, and remark, "There ole George goes again." Did his wife, Winnie sit up in bed and exclaim, "Run out there and stop him, and give him a couple of dollars to mow the yard. You haven't bothered mowing it for three months!" 

No doubt, when it "was all said and done" the sand man sprinkled a little more fairy dust into their eyes, and sleep overcame George's elderly neighbors once again.

My memory has been irreparably changed.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

KATHY GOES FREE

 4411

Kathy Bates, the well known Hollywood actress, appeared in a CBS Sunday Morning segment.

Now is her 70’s, she looked fantastic; having lost 100 pounds over the past couple of years.

As the interview progressed, the correspondent asked various questions about her weight loss, a current TV production she is working on, and her favorite movies in which she appeared.

Ultimately, the subject turned to the movie, “Misery” and the Academy Award for best female actor. While they were speaking about the topic, a couple of video segments of the movie were spliced into the interview.

And now, Ms. Bates began to speak about her acceptance speech, and an especially vivid, but negative memory of this speech.

“I have one major regret, and sense of guilt about that speech that I haven’t been able to tunnel over, under, or through throughout the years.”

(and)

“It never ceases to bother me”

(and)

“I thanked everyone… except my mother;” (who has by now, no doubt, gone on to her reward).

“I didn’t thank my mother for her support.”

To which the interviewer replied,

“Oh, but you DID thank your mother.”

With this, Ms. Bates looked incredulous, and responded,

“No, no I did not!”

With this, the reporter brought up the actress’ Oscar acceptance speech on his phone, and played the video for her.

Of course, she proceeded to thank the director, and producer, and her fellow actor, James Caan. And as she concluded her acceptance speech, Ms. Bates says,

“And I want to thank my… mother, and father who sacrificed so much to get me where I am today!”

You could have knocked the actress over with a feather. She was absolutely dumbfounded! (It was immediately apparent that Kathy had not watched the video of her speech in the thirty plus years since she gave it).

When she was able to speak, a sense of relief swept over the actress. And now, she looked at the interviewer, and said,

“I did mention my mother in the speech!”

(and)

“Thank you. Thank you so much!”

I am thrilled that Kathy Bates came to terms with the flawed mindset which fostered guilt, and kept her from enjoying life to the fullest.

Her experience is a poignant reminder that too many people walk around with flawed memories. or false perceptions of a word uttered, or an action performed in the past; by one’s self, or someone else.

Those flawed memories, and false perceptions have the wherewithal to keep us stuck, or, at least, overwhelm us with anxiety, depression, and guilt.

Scripture assures us that,

“You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” (John 8:32)

Overcoming false, or dysfunctional mindsets may take a time of reflection, of sorting out the past, of forgiving others, or one’s self, of sharing with a friend, or enrolling in a therapeutic process.

I believe it is imperative that we separate truth from untruth, fact from fable, function from dysfunction. And as quickly as humanly possible; in order to live out a peaceable, balanced, and productive life on the earth.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

GOODNIGHT JAMIE, WHEREEVER YOU ARE

 4410

My wife and I enjoyed a vacation in California a full thirty years ago. (It is suddenly startling to think three decades have come and gone since that trip). We visited Monterey, San Francisco, Muir Woods, Yosemite National Park, and Sonora.

 

We passed through Sonora at lunchtime, and as a result, Jean and I decided we’d try the local Shoney’s buffet restaurant. As we walked in we noticed that the waitresses were outfitted in light blue, long-sleeved blouses, and dark green floor-length dresses; so much like the character in, “Anne of Green Gables.”

 

As we sat down, our waitress stepped up to our table, and it seemed to me that things were getting “curiouser and curioser.” For our twenty-some year old server, whom we quickly learned was named, “Jamie,” (not sure if we ever got a last name) was a close doppelganger for Megan Follows, the actress who portrayed Anne in that popular television series.

 

Of course, we inquired whether anyone had ever called the similarity to her attention. And she responded with a smile and a polite, “Well, not today,” and proceeded to take our orders. Having finished our meals, we left a generous tip for our momentary friend, walked out the door, got in our car and drove away.

 

I suppose we had driven a couple of miles when I looked at Jean and said,

 

“This might seem weird, but I’d like to go back and get a picture of Jamie. She looks so much like that television character, and it would be another nice memory of our trip.”

 

With this, my wife said she had been thinking much the same thing, and so I turned the car around and we went back to Shoney’s. Having arrived there, we went in, and explained to Jamie that we’d love to have a photo of her as a memento of our trip. She quickly acquiesced, suggested we walk out on the unenclosed front porch, and smiled for the picture. And with that, we thanked her, bid her farewell, and we were off.

 

In the intervening decades, I can’t begin to tell you how often we have reminisced about our trip, and more often than not referred to the now, almost 50 year old  Jamie, more than any other person or place.

 

“I wonder how she’s been doing?” (and) “Perhaps she’s married now.” (and) “I wonder how long she worked at that restaurant.” (and) “I wonder if she remembers us the way we remember her?”

 

While it is doubtful we will ever see our momentary acquaintance again in this life, we never cease to think of her, refer to her as a sort of long lost friend, and even pray for her. Oddly enough, she’s just never all that far from our minds.

 

Goodnight Jamie. Where ever you are.

by Bill McDonald, PhD