PULLING INTO THE DRIVEWAY AT HOME

 Most folks turn giddy when they are heading out for a vacation.  To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of them. I enjoyed them once we arrived, but something always seemed to happen to make those trips less than fun.  

Our family took only one vacation trip. Daddy drove us to Florida for a week; we played at the beach while he stayed in the house and swept sand out the front door. He appeared in a bathing suit, walked into the ocean, and promptly went back to the place we were staying. That was the only time I ever saw him in a swimsuit or in a body of water.  

On the trip home, I sat in the backseat of our ‘62 Chevrolet and baked as the plastic covers stuck to my body. I looked out the window and watched a seagull flying beside our car. It suddenly dipped its left wing and released a huge poop bomb. The disgusting stuff splattered on my arm and streaked my white t-shirt. The long ride home was no fun.  

Yearly trips to the mountains with the Burns family were always fun. We spent hours of each day swimming in the cold mountain water. Dives from “the rock” were dangerous because jagged rocks set close to the one from which we dove. Somehow, none of us was ever injured from those dives.  

Other adventures were scarier. A hike to Ramsey Cascade and attempted jump across water to keep my tennis shoes dry left me sitting on the edge of the falls and looking for someone to help pull me back safely. By the way, my tennis shoes were soaked and blistered my feet on the walk back home.  Riding a small waterfall in the river on another occasion almost ended in my drowning.  

Amy, the kids, and I have taken several trips during the summers. One trip to Gulf Shores didn’t go so well. I hauled most things in a container and strapped it on the top with bungy cords. It blew of as we made a side trip to see the naval vessels in Mobile. Luckily, we’d emptied the thing, and all that was lost were several pairs of dirty underwear. On another trip we flew to Florida, but the airlines managed to lose our luggage. 

A couple of years ago, we traveled to Ilse of Palms. It was one of the nicest places we’d ever stayed. All went well until Tuesday night. Amy began to get sick and spent the rest of the night throwing up. We thought she’d eaten some bad seafood, but by Wednesday morning, I decided to go to the emergency room at the local hospital. As it turned out, Amy had appendicitis. The doctor planned to take it out on the following Monday. However, by Friday, Amy was so full of antibiotics that she had no pain and felt fine. We decided to return to Knoxville and go to the hospital there. Of course, we drove through a thunderstorm that dumped water so heavily that traffic drove about 20 mph. Then a wreck backed up traffic for miles. We arrived in Knoxville at 11:30 p.m. The doctor in Knoxville was a bit more concerned about the appendicitis and performed surgery the next morning. 

This year, Amy and I decided to drive to Navarre Beach. Our son Dallas volunteered to keep Sadie, and we were on the road by 8:00 a,m. for the seven-hour trip. We ran into long delays on I-65, and by the time we drove the last long leg not on the Interstate, 10 hours had elapsed. We rented an umbrella and chairs from one company. The owner brought the items strapped to a dolly. Each day, I would have to load the stuff, wheel it back to the room, and climb a set of steps to store the items. The first day, one of the metal rods broke and the umbrellas was blown inside-out.  

We looked for a better route back home, but even the shortest one is 500 miles. I’d thought the trip would have been fewer miles. Prayed that no wrecks would occur to have us sitting still for hours on our return drive. Even though I had a good time sitting on the beach and reading or listening to Keb’ Mo,” the part I like most is always pulling into the driveway at home.  

 

BATTER UP IN KNOXVILLE

 Amy and I attended a ballgame at Smoky Stadium this past weekend, thanks to Janet Anderson inviting us. It’d been a couple of years since we traveled to see the team play, and I was surprised to see some of the changes to the field and the amenities. It’s not much like the old Bill Meyer Stadium in east Knoxville that kids visited in the 1960’s. 

The first such game I attended at the old stadium was with the boys on our community baseball team. No, we didn’t have uniforms, and no one marched us on the field to stand beside the player who fielded the same positions as we die. We walked through the gate and were on our own. For a while, boys from teams around the area sat with wide eyes to watch the players take infield. They’d pull for their guys when they came to bat and cheer when one made a spectacular team in the field.  

However, at that age, nothing can capture the attention of boys for too long a period. We began scout out the stadium. Our first order of business was to gander at all the food that was sold. The scents cooking hotdogs and hamburgers, as well as that of buttered popcorn, set off loud growls in our stomach, but none of us had enough money to buy food. Our parents allowed us to go to the game to watch it, not to eat supper. Plenty of food would be waiting for us upon our return to home.  

Playing baseball is always more fun to do than to watch. If you don’t believe me, take a look at kids on outer edges of the field. More than likely, one game is going on. Kids make balls with wadded up cups and wrappers. If no bat is available, batters will hit the ball with bare hands and race down the imaginary line as if he’d hit an important single. After three outs or five runs were scored, the sides changed field positions. The game was more important than what was occurring on the real field. 

After guys had had enough playing, they parked their sweaty bodies in the stands...but only long enough to cool off and perhaps get a drink of water. Then it was off to the next adventure. That usually meant camping out someplace close to where a foul ball or home run might leave the confines of the fenced areas. Dozens of boys took off in search of the best souvenirs they could ever have.  

I found a ball one time at a game. I held it high and celebrated my success, but it was short lived, Some creep came up to me and demanded the ball. I reluctantly handed it to him, and he turned on his heels and wall with a stride that might have made someone think he was important. Instead, he marched up to the dugout with the ball I’d found and returned it to the team. JERK! The biggest prize I’d ever laid my hands on was taken from me by a man who wanted to impress the team. I’ll bet that ball was used for batting practice and that some other kid found it, or it was tossed on the trash heap when it became too soft to hit any more. I arrived home as disappointed as a kid who hooks a monster fish and just as he’s about to net it, the line breaks and the prize escapes.  

I really enjoyed sitting in the outfield and eating a meal and sipping a beer the other evening. I’d forgotten just how relaxing the game of baseball is to those of us who are well passed our prime. 

I hope and pray that the new baseball field will be finished soon. I want to buy season tickets (2) so that I can go most any time I feel like it. Let’s just hope I can afford the tickets. If so, what I’ve wanted for so long will have occurred: the return of baseball to Knoxville.  

PART OF MY MISSION IS COMPLETE

 Some subjects for each writer haunt them. One might be an outline for a novel; another might be a character who shines in a short story; still, another might be just the right rhythm for a poem. We who try to put words on paper to entertain or explain or provoke hang on to these things for years. Perhaps we keep writing new pieces on old subjects in hopes of someday saying things just the right way so that readers have a clear view of what we are trying to convey.  This is one of those subjects for me.  

I’ve heard too many influential individuals declare that they don’t believe in a supreme being. In most books of fiction or movies, the main characters are at least struggling with the ideas of a mighty creator or a life after this one. Has that always been true, or have the times allowed people to more freely express their doubts? I’m about to tackle the questions with my feeble understanding of God, Heaven, and existence.  

We humans are just one class of primates. Science tells us that the universe began with a big bang, and ever since, life forms have developed and adapted. Some have survived while others have weakened and died. We are viewed as things that exist by sheer coincidence. On the other hand, the bible tells us that we were formed by the hands of God, the mighty creator who gave for and life to all things. At the same time, the story tells us that all of this was done in six days. 

I easily understand how difficult both explanations are to accept. We must remember that no one know how long a day is to such an all-powerful being, One day could equal millions of years in His world. At the same time, deciding that humans began as organisms that changed to conditions over millions of years until they reached where they are today doesn’t work for some. People feel more is involved in our creation than a random explosive event.   

Here’s my take on it, for what it’s worth. How we came into existence is not a matter of importance. We are living, breathing life forms. We eat, sleep, and communicate like most species. Our limbs perform functions that help us in our daily lives. Some are talented athletes who perform amazing feats. Others are brilliant minds that do such things as creating vaccines that save the world from destruction. Many of us are simple folks who make our lives the best they can be.  

When these physical bodies fall ill to a disease or wear out from years of living, they shut down and cease to exist. What is left is something akin to a broken-down car. In some cases, both are of some value if as parts are sold. Otherwise, our bodies are of no use any longer.  

My contention is that something else other a physical body exists in all of us. It is a spirit that directs us in different directions. It helps us to make choices, learn, and perform. Just as we are all different physically, so are our spirits different. I have a twin brother, and yes, in many ways we are just alike, but we have our differences in preferences, talents, and beliefs. The driving force in this world is that living thing inside that directs our ideas and actions. I believe it is what mankind calls a soul, that little piece of God that lives inside each person.  

Now, if the above assumption is true, then these souls came from something greater than we are, and when our physical bodies die, those pieces return to the owner. Many who read this will say how can you be sure? I can’t. I believe that this is true, just as a person believes that the sun will rise tomorrow. Neither of us can be sure that these beliefs are true. We simply have faith that they are.  

I never will convince some people of my beliefs, but maybe this one can answer a question and sooth the mind of just one person. If that happens, part of my mission here is complete. 

 

SALUTE AND THANKS TO TWO OLD BAND DIRECTORS

 I received an invitation to the event but wasn’t sure whether or not to attend. It was a retirement get together for Ron Rogers and Steve Taylor, two former band directors in Knox County and other places. My brother Jim convinced me to go, and I’m glad he was so insistent.  

Ron is a towering man. He attended Gibbs High School and played basketball for the school. I met him when he, Steve, and my brother Jim were working together at Farragut High School. At that time, no band was better. Massive numbers of students were involved, I don’t know what the school’s football teams were like back then, but I know that the band won enough competitions to make displaying trophies an impossible task.  

Ron was a fantastic director, but he also had enviable relationships with his students. They would do whatever was asked of them, and they strove to get better every week. His yelling at them to go back and do things right frayed the edges of their nerves, but students always knew Ron demanded excellence from each musician or flag core member...and himself. 

Ron’s office was a sacred place where directors gathered before and after practice. No student dared to enter without knocking first, and on many occasions, they held their noses as they came through the door. Director offices are notoriously disheveled, dirty, and downright stinky. I suppose that sitting in that confined space long enough dulled one’s senses enough to stay. 

My first meeting with Steve Taylor occurred at Karns High School. At that time, I was teaching English, and Jim was the head band director. This young man with curly red hair introduced himself as my brother’s assistant. I offered my sympathies and congratulations all at the same time. Steve was a worrier, or so it seemed. He let little things get to him. HIs work with the brass section improved them, but he never seemed satisfied. When his temper got the best of him, his face turned nearly as red as his hair, and he seemed to start any uncomfortable conversation with a question first.  

Steve went on to other schools and landed at my first place of employment. It was named Doyle High to me, but Steve came when it was South Doyle High. His bands grew in numbers and playing prowess. In fact, Steve’s demand for excellence led his groups to achieving the highest marks in concert and marching competitions.  

At this gathering to honor Ron and Steve, I met plenty of people but knew few. May were former students, several who had themselves majored in music and had become directors themselves. Each had a litany of stories about the retirees, some not exactly good to share in mixed company.  Still, those younger folks came to thank the men for how they had positively affected their lives. 

I spied a couple of old guys that were icons in their days as directors. Dwight Christian and Stanley Barnes for years were masters of their crafts and produced fine bands and excellent musicians. Stanley sat as judge for the first band tryout I had. He listened to my prepared piece and asked me to play several scales. Despite that, I still managed to make one of the bands. Dwight is a golf buddy. Now he is a few years my senior, but the man can still wear me out during 18 holes. HIs career as a band director is almost legendary.  

I hope and pray that the new band director taking the places of Ron and Steve are as well prepared and as musically talented. The expectations of others are high for new folks, and filling the shoes of these two men will be difficult. 

Ron Rogers and Steve Taylor will find other things to do. Neither can sit still long. Raise a glass to them and wish them well in the future, Give thanks for 30-pius years of dedication to music education when they gave hours of extra time to help any student become a better musician who could see the importance of a music program.